COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME
"Polly, do you know I have been here a month to-day?"
It was about four o'clock on a fine March afternoon, and Cousin Becky sat on a chair near the sitting-room window, her busy fingers employed in sewing, whilst occasionally her sharp dark eyes strayed from her work to the only other occupant of the room—Polly—who was reading a story-book.
"Yes, Cousin Becky," Polly answered, closing her book, in which she was not very interested, and coming to the window, where she stood examining a pot of crocuses, just opening into flower, which she had cherished through the winter and which now graced the window sill. "How the time has flown, to be sure! It doesn't seem nearly so long—at least, not to me."
COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY.
"Nor to me either. I have never thanked you for giving up your room to me, my dear; in fact, I did not know you had done so until a few days ago when Roger—"
"Oh, Roger should not have told you!" Polly broke in, looking vexed.
"I am very glad he did. I feel very grateful to you, Polly."
"I have been quite comfortable in the attic; it is really a nice big room, only of course it has a sloping roof and the window is rather small and high in the wall! I have grown to like it, indeed I have."