“My little girl was ’most as big as you,” he mused. “Not quite; she wasn’t but six when she—went. But you look consider’ble like her—wish’t I had a picture o’ Susie! I wish’t I had!” He drew his breath hard.
Polly patted the wrinkled hand, not knowing what to say.
“But I’ve got a picture here you’ll like,” the little man brightened. “Yer’ll like it first-rate.”
His hand moved gropingly underneath the bed covers, and finally brought out the little box that Polly instantly recognized.
“Oh, thank you! How pretty it is!” She received it with a radiant smile.
Mr. Bean’s face grew suddenly troubled.
“Yer mustn’t blame Jane too much,” he began pleadingly. “I guess she kind o’ dassent give it to yer, so long afterwards. It’s locked,”—as Polly pulled at the cover,—“and there ain’t no key,” he mourned. “I do’ know what Jane’s done with it. Yer’ll have to git another,—there wa’n’t no other way.” His voice was plaintive.
“That’s all right,” Polly reassured him.
The pleasure of once more holding the little box in her hand was enough for the moment.
“I see it in her bureau drawer the day we was first married,” he went on reminiscently, “an’ she opened it and showed me what was in it. Ther’ ’s a picture of yer mother—”