I had not seen them or their place in several years, so I was astonished by the changes. My sister Polly—a homely old maid—and Edna’s father had some glimmerings of enterprise. Polly took in and read several magazines, and from them gathered odds and ends of up-to-date ideas about dress, about furnishing, about gardens. With the valuable assistance of old Weeping Willie she had wrought a most creditable transformation. The old people now “looked like something,” as the saying is. And the place had a real smartness—both within and without.
Polly—she was about eight years my senior, but looked old enough to be my mother—Polly watched me anxiously as I strolled and nosed about. My delight filled her with delight.
“You’re not so ashamed of us, perhaps?” said she.
“I never have been,” replied I. Nor did I put an accent on the personal pronoun that would have been a hint about somebody else’s feelings.
“Well—you ought to have been,” said she. “We were mighty far behind even the tail of the procession.”
“I’ll admit I like this better than the way we used to live in Passaic. Polly, you’ve got the best there is going. All the rest—all the luxury and other nonsense—is nothing but a source of unhappiness.”
She did not answer. I noted a touching sadness in her expression.
“You don’t agree with me?” said I.
“Yes, I do,” replied she emphatically. “I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“What have you got to be unhappy about?”