“I want to see Miss Dolly Merrifield,” she said.
“Oh! me?” exclaimed the little voice.
“If ‘me’ is Dolly,” dimpled Polly, taking the small, thin hand in hers.
“Oh, yes, of course, I’m Dolly! Are you the lady who took Gay to ride?” she asked shyly.
“The very one,” Polly nodded. “Now, what do you say to a ride yourself this afternoon?”
The little pale face was pink with surprise and a kind of awed joy. “Oh!” she breathed, “oh!—this afternoon?”
“I can have father’s car this afternoon,” Polly explained. “It has been busy since the day that I made Gladys Guinevere’s acquaintance.”
The little girl smiled. “What a long, funny name she’s got! Mine is Dorothy, but ’most everybody calls me Dolly. Sometimes Sardis does; just once in awhile, you know.”
“And who is Sardis?”
“Why, don’t you know Sardis? His name was in the paper, Sardis Elisha Merrifield. He was the valedictorian of his class.” The long word fell easily from the small lips.