When Polly Was Eighteen

by Emma C. Dowd

The child pressed a forefinger to her smiling lips, while she looked across the table in merry response.

Morning usually slipped swiftly away with the elder member of the household, but dragged more or less wearily with the little one who had nothing to do but to sit at the window and gaze across the street and up at the lawns and gardens that surrounded the home of Mrs. Hamilton Garde on Burton Avenue. She could catch glimpses of the great house, with its towers and multi-colored roofs, as the green branches waved to and fro. The stables and garage were at the foot of the hill, almost directly opposite the little gray house, and a path led down from the mansion above. Few trod this path except the stable boys, the coachman that drove the handsome pair of black horses, and the two chauffeurs who had charge of the shining cars.

The watcher at the small window never tired of looking at those beautiful cars when they came out of the garage, and they generally did come out two or three times a day.

This morning there was no weariness in the baby-blue eyes as they watched for one of the chauffeurs to come down the path. Of course, the little maid told herself, Mrs. Hamilton Garde would not come for her until afternoon—she wondered whether it would be at one or two or three o’clock. Anyway, she was ready, all ready except for the putting on of her coat and hat. She drew a sigh of satisfaction. It was so comfortable to know that one was ready for whatever came. Then she fell to thinking of the happy letter she would write to Sardis, dear Brother Sardis, about the wonderful ride that Mrs. Hamilton Garde had given her. Brother Sardis never spoke of Mrs. Hamilton Garde these days. But she could remember a time, long ago,—she was such a mite of a girl then,—before Sardis went to live with Uncle Dwight, when he used to hate the rich woman who lived in the great house on Burton Avenue, because of the way she had of tossing her head with a gay little laugh whenever she chanced to come upon him with his sister in his arms. As she thought it over now, she wondered why Mrs. Garde had laughed. She was sure it was a very nice thing for Sardis to do, nothing at all funny about it as far as she could see. Sometimes she knew that he had stayed away from a ball game just to carry her out for a long walk. Perhaps she did look funny in his arms, for Sardis was rather small for his age. Once—she should never forget it!—Mrs. Garde had said, “So you’re taking out your doll for an airing!” And then she had laughed that gay little laugh. Sardis had watched the carriage into the distance with a dark, scowly face. He had said something, too, under his breath that she could not hear, and when she had asked him what it was his face had grown very red and he would not tell. Dear Brother Sardis! How she wished she could see him this very minute! As soon as she had had her ride she would write to him all about it, and how surprised he would be!

The sight of the tallest chauffeur coming down the path put a stop to her musings, and she watched him as he disappeared in the garage. He generally drove the big car. “Oh, I hope it will be the big car this afternoon!” she said to herself. It was the big car now, for the tall young fellow drove it from the garage and then stopped, jumped out and ran back for something. He drove directly by the window and up the road to the great house. Mrs. Hamilton Garde was going to ride. The little girl drew a long, happy breath—it was nice to have so beautiful a thing to anticipate.

“Maybe she’ll come right after luncheon,” smiled the wee maid two hours later from her high chair;—“you said she didn’t have dinner at twelve, as we do.” She looked across to her aunt for reassurance.

“She has hers at six,” answered Aunt Sophie.

“Maybe she’ll come at two o’clock,” the little one prattled on. “Don’t you guess it will be about two?”

A quick shade passed over Aunt Sophie’s round face. Then a smile came out.

“Maybe,” she said.