“Oh!” Polly interrupted excitedly, “of mamma?”
“Yis, so she said. Looks like you, too,—same kind o’ eyes. It was goin’ to be for your birthday—that’s what she had it took for, Jane said.”
Polly had been breathlessly following his words, and now broke out in sudden reproach:—
“Oh! why didn’t Aunt Jane let me have it! How could she keep it, when I wanted a picture of mamma so!”
The reply did not come at once. A shadow of pain passed over the man’s face, leaving it more drawn and pallid.
“It’s too bad!” he lamented weakly. “I tol’ Jane so then; but she thought ’twould kind o’ upset yer, likely, and so—” His voice faltered. He began again bravely. “You mustn’t blame Jane too much, my dear! Jane’s got some good streaks, real good streaks.”
Polly looked up from the little box. Her eyes were wet, but she smiled cheerfully into the anxious face.
“I ought not to blame her, now she’s sent it,” she said sweetly; “and I thank you ever so much for bringing it.”
A hint of a smile puckered the thin lips.