“Why, Benedicta,” broke in Polly, “you shouldn’t have thought of me! I can cook—a little, and so can Lilith. We’ll get along all right.”
“Then you don’t blame me for going?” The housekeeper eyed the girl keenly.
“Blame you!” Polly took the reddened hands in her own. “It is the very thing I want you to do. I am proud of you to know that you are ready to go—just when you are needed.”
Benedicta shook her head slowly. “Thank you, Miss Polly. I’m goin’ sure, though”—a flush stole over her face—“I’d rather be horsewhipped than to do it! Las’ night, at first, I almost hoped you wouldn’t let me off!”
“I know how you feel,” returned Polly; “but when it is over with, you wouldn’t have missed it for a farm. You’ll be so glad. It will pay—if only for that.”
Benedicta looked at Polly through a mist of tears. “It’s just you and that little Ferne kid that’s done it,” she said. “You are so good!”
“Nonsense! I’m not good at all!”
Benedicta smiled as a tear ran down her cheek.
“I do hope, Miss Polly, that I’ll get to heaven before you do—I shall be amazin’ly disappointed if I don’t—for I’m countin’ on bein’ there when your crown is brought in. You’ll look so astonished, for it’ll be full of stars—bright ones, too!—and you’ll say, ‘Oh, no, that isn’t mine! That can’t be for me! There must be some mistake!’ Oh, I know just what you’ll say, and it’ll be such fun to hear you say it!”