“You haven’t told me your name yet,” Polly smiled.
“Oh, my name is Gladys Guinevere Evangeline Smith! But you needn’t go through all that rigmarole, you can call me Gay; everybody does. An’ ter think of me a-ridin’!”
As the car stopped in front of Gladys Guinevere’s home it found itself the center of a crowd of girls and boys, mothers and babies, with an occasional lounger who quite casually started to walk across the street in front of the machine and quite as casually stopped on the outside of the circle.
Polly was many times obliged to reiterate her promise to take “Dolly” to ride; but at last all the questions had been asked and answered and all the “thank-you’s” and “good-byes” had been said. Then, amid the scattering onlookers, with much waving of hands on both sides, the car rolled away.
CHAPTER VIII
COUCHES OF CLOVER
FOR a whole week Dr. Dudley’s automobile was active in professional work; then word was brought Polly that the car would be at her disposal for three hours that afternoon. Her plans were already made, and as soon as her morning tasks were completed, leaving her mother in charge of Paradise Ward, Polly started on her way to Prattsboro and Dolly Merrifield.
The little girl was at the window. “Come in!” she called when Polly lifted the old brass knocker.
The broad kitchen was alive with sunshine, but the bareness of the big room struck the girl disagreeably as she opened the door. At first the child at the window was not visible. Then a winsome little voice said, “Aunt Sophie isn’t home.”
Polly peeped around the door, and smiled.