“I don’t b’lieve I’d like to live like a queen,” laughed Polly. “But,” she admitted, “I should love some own cousins. I wouldn’t wonder if you’d find the letter when you go home. I feel just as if you would, and—oh, my! I didn’t know it was so near nine o’clock!” as a distant cling-clang made itself noticed. “That’s the last bell! Good-bye!” And Polly whirled off, Mr. Bean gazing the way she went long after her blue plaid had vanished from his sight.
Up the street she ran, fearful of being tardy, and slacking to a walk only when a view of the downtown clock told her that she still had time to spare.
Turning in at the side gate of the house where the school was kept, she saw a lady on the front porch. In the doorway beyond stood Miss Greenleaf, the head teacher, with a girl—a very pretty girl of about her own age. This was all she had time to observe before passing out of sight, on her way to the children’s entrance. But a few words, caught just as she slipped by the house corner, stayed with her.
“I am glad, Mrs. Illingworth, that you think—”
“Illingworth!” Polly repeated softly. “I never knew there were any Illingworths in town. Mamma used to say there weren’t. I wonder if she could be related—oh, I wonder!”
Having reached her seat, she began to watch the door for the new scholar. She tried to attend to the opening exercises, but found her eyes constantly reverting to the spot of fascination, until she grew strangely excited. She really had not long to wait. Soon the girl was ushered quietly in and given a seat five desks away. Polly wished it had been nearer. Then she might have been asked to show the new pupil about some lesson, or to lend her a book. But she was at a convenient point for being observed, and that was a distinct advantage.
The girl was a slight little thing, who carried herself gracefully, without bashfulness. Her soft brown hair, brushed smoothly back from the tanned oval face, fell in long, thick braids over the slim shoulders, and disappeared in crisp ribbon bows of the same color. The dress was a simple affair of light blue wool, which fitted the wearer perfectly and gave her the air of being more richly clad than some of the girls whose frocks were of costlier material.
Polly came near giving too much attention to these interesting details, but finally settled down to study in the contented belief that she was “going to like” the girl with the familiar name. At recess she would speak to her, and “get acquainted.” For two hours this was her fixed hope. Then, when the rest time came, before she could make good her desire, she had the dissatisfaction of seeing the new scholar walk away arm in arm with Ilga Barron, and she turned back to her desk with sober eyes and regret in her heart.
“Isn’t Patricia Illingworth lovely?” whispered a voice.