Once he told me of an awful thing that he did. He puffed out his cheeks before he began to talk, so I knew that it was going to be funny.
"I didn't get on well with a maid my mother had," he said. "Her name was Polly. Did I ever tell you about Polly, Rhoda?"
"No, granddad," I answered, eagerly.
I was leaning against his chair, and we had the parlor quite to ourselves. It was a time for confidences.
"Polly didn't like boys," granddad went on.
"But she liked you, granddad," I asserted, loyally.
He shook his head.
"Polly liked me least of all. She may have had her reasons, but it was her fault in the first place, mind you. When I'd bring home a poor stray dog, she would turn it out to starve! And when I brought home stones, and I was always fond of stones, she would dump them out in the road. I felt that I should like to get even."
I nodded at him. I had felt that way myself.