"Who is that woman?" inquired Colonel Gresham.
"My Aunt Jane," was the soft answer.
"What's her other name?"
"Mrs. Simpson. Uncle Gregory—that was her husband—was killed when the building fell, and I was hurt."
"Oh, yes! I recollect. Well, is Aunt Jane good to you? Do you love her very much?"
Polly waived the first question, and proceeded to the second. "I'm afraid I don't love her at all," she replied honestly. "Of course, I ought to; but I don't."
"It is mighty hard to love some folks," meditated the Colonel. "I think I should rather do a season's ploughing than to attempt to love that Aunt Jane."
Polly smiled, and then returned to the question she had left behind. "I guess she's pretty good to me," she said. "She never whipped me."
"Whipped you!" the Colonel exclaimed. "I should hope not!"
"Aunts do whip sometimes," Polly nodded soberly. "Bessie Jackson's aunt whipped her—awful! I'd run away!"