"Yes," Polly responded with a smile, by no means abashed at this direct question. "I am sure I shall. But you are not a bit like what I expected."
"Indeed! What did you expect?"
"I thought you would look much older," the little girl candidly admitted.
"I'm nearly seventy, my dear, and that's a good age. But I don't feel old, and I cannot have changed a great deal of late years—except that my hair has grown white—for your father recognised me the minute he saw me on the platform."
At that moment Mr. Trent appeared upon the scene, followed by Roger. They had been helping to take their visitor's luggage upstairs; and Mrs. Trent now suggested that Cousin Becky should go to her room and remove her travelling things, by which time she would be glad of some tea.
"What do you think of her, Polly?" asked Roger, as soon as their mother and Cousin Becky had gone upstairs together.
"I think she looks very nice and kind," was the prompt reply; "but what a little thing she is, Roger! Father, you never told us that."
In truth, Miss Trent was a very little lady, with a slight figure which was wonderfully upright and agile for one her age. When she returned to the sitting-room, Roger pulled the easy chair nearer the fire for her, and Polly placed a cushion behind her shoulders, and she looked at them both with a very tender light shining in her dark eyes.
"Thank you, my dears," she said with the smile which made her plain face look almost beautiful. "I will take the easy chair to-night as I am weary after my journey, but usually I am not so indulgent to myself. Roger, you are very like what your father used to be at your age."
"And do you think I am like Aunt Janie?" asked Polly, veiled anxiety in her tone.