CHAPTER III
A MERRY CHRISTMAS
Of all Polly’s new friends, not one took a warmer interest in the young idea-vendor than that first customer of hers, Miss Beatrice Compton. Miss Beatrice was a warm-hearted and enthusiastic girl, who never did anything by halves; and when she talked of Polly, of Polly’s skill and of Polly’s originality, when she extolled Polly’s eyes and Polly’s hair, Polly’s wit and Polly’s sweetness, few listeners remained quite unmoved and incurious. Among the many who were thus stirred to seek out this youthful paragon, was Miss Compton’s brother-in-law, Mr. Horace Clapp. Nor was an idle curiosity his only motive in taking the step. Beneath the pretext he found for paying the visit lurked a rather shamefaced 174 purpose of doing this “plucky little genius” a good turn.
It happened, therefore, one morning in December, that Polly came home from her marketing to find a stranger sitting in her porch. A dog-cart, driven by a groom in livery, was passing and repassing her door; and one look at the occupant of the porch sufficed to fix the connection between the two. He was a well-dressed man of thirty or more, who rose as she opened the gate and saluted her as if she had been a duchess.
“Miss Polly Fitch?” he inquired, as he stood before her, hat in hand.
It was noticeable that no one ever omitted the “Polly” from the girl’s name. It seemed as much a part of her as the ruddy hair and the dimple in her chin. That dimple, by the way, should have been mentioned long ago; but that, in its turn, was so essential a feature, that one would as soon think it necessary to state that Polly’s nose had an upward tilt as that her chin had a dimple. Any one who had ever heard of Polly must know 175 that her nose would tilt and her chin have a dimple.
Polly had a large market-basket on her arm, and as she felt in her pocket for the key to the front door, her visitor took possession of the basket. She was a good deal impressed by the attention from so magnificent a personage, and one, moreover, of advanced years. She began to think that she must be mistaken about his being thirty; why, that was Cousin John’s age, and Cousin John was quite an oldish man. She motioned her visitor to enter, and it must be admitted that there was no oppressive reverence in her tone as she said:
“If you would tell me your name, now we should be starting fair!”
“My name is Horace Clapp. Did you ever hear of me?”