“Gone already!”
“Yes. He went for the first time yesterday, for fear he should lose any learning. But it’s half-holiday, Polly: if you could only stop till he comes home—you and Miss Nipper, leastways,” said Jemima, mindful in good time of the dignity of the black-eyed.
“And how does he look, Jemima, bless him!” faltered Polly.
“Well, really he don’t look so bad as you’d suppose,” returned Jemima.
“Ah!” said Polly, with emotion, “I knew his legs must be too short.”
“His legs is short,” returned Jemima; “especially behind; but they’ll get longer, Polly, every day.”
It was a slow, prospective kind of consolation; but the cheerfulness and good nature with which it was administered, gave it a value it did not intrinsically possess. After a moment’s silence, Polly asked, in a more sprightly manner:
“And where’s Father, Jemima dear?”—for by that patriarchal appellation, Mr Toodle was generally known in the family.
“There again!” said Jemima. “What a pity! Father took his dinner with him this morning, and isn’t coming home till night. But he’s always talking of you, Polly, and telling the children about you; and is the peaceablest, patientest, best-temperedest soul in the world, as he always was and will be!”
“Thankee, Jemima,” cried the simple Polly; delighted by the speech, and disappointed by the absence.