“’Deed, you don’t,” Welcome responded, resolutely. “Ain’t nuffin’ but a baby. Getting so self-compinionated, dere won’t be any living with you, chile, not a bit.”
“I want long dresses pretty soon.” Polly put the idea suggestively, her brown eyes full of mischief.
“Long dresses! For mercy sakes. Hyar dat chile talk. Don’t need long dresses any more’n a toad needs a side pocket.”
Polly laughed as she slipped out of her white dress and into a simpler one for home use; then ran downstairs to join her grandfather. On the right hand side of the lower hall was the Admiral’s own private retreat, from which Polly herself was barred admission, save by special permit. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she hesitated, and listened. The hallway divided the house equally, running its full length, with great doorways at either end, opening on broad verandas. Every evening before dinner, Polly and the Admiral walked in the garden, and told each other the happenings of the day. It was an old sweet custom, that dated back to Polly’s toddling days, and they both looked forward to it as the happy climax to each day’s routine.
Polly took a golf cape from the hall rack, and threw it around her shoulders. Although it was the end of June, the evenings were still cool along the river, and Aunty Welcome would scold if she went out into the night unprotected.
Stretched out at full length before the doorway was Tan, the old setter. He lifted his head, bent one friendly ear towards her, and beat his long, silky tail lazily on the floor.
“Tan, you old goose,” said Polly, kneeling beside him, “why don’t you make a fuss over me? Don’t you know this is one of the golden days of life for me? You might at least bark! I suppose you’re waiting till I finish Calvert Hall and college besides. Well, let me tell you, sir, it is something to be through your Freshman year at Calvert Hall. It is hard work, I’d have you know.”
Tan dozed lazily off while she talked to him. She rose with a little sigh, and went softly out into the garden. On the top step she paused, just for a minute, and lifted her face to the evening light. Polly loved that old garden. During babyhood and childhood it had been her wonderland of enchantment, her play country of mystery and make-believe. It was just sunset now, and the mellow light turned the old gray walls of the house into battlements of splendor. The garden stretched primly before her, with its beds of flowers, trimly-cut hedges and last of all, four terraces sloping to the river. An old cypress stood guard at the rustic steps leading down to the boat landing. Polly hurried along the narrow paths until she came to the spot the Admiral loved best. In the old days she had always called it the Wishing Seat, for if one caught the Admiral there at the sunset hour, and wished a really good wish, it was almost always sure to come true. Beneath an apple tree it stood, with banks of lilacs behind it. A rose bush drooped over one corner, a bush of old-fashioned musk roses that Polly’s mother had planted there years ago, palest pink, and so fragrant that even at twilight the humming birds fluttered around them lovingly.
There had been a sun dial near the old Roman seat, but only the pedestal was left, and that was overgrown with morning-glory vines. When Polly’s brown curls had barely reached the top of the dial, she had loved to climb the two steps of the stone pedestal and pick off the little trumpet shaped buds, and “pop” them. Didn’t you ever do it? It’s lots of fun.
The Admiral sat as usual on the old seat, his iron gray hair upcurling from his high forehead, as Polly had told him once, for all the world like a surprised cockatoo. He was resting placidly after the unaccustomed excitement of the Commencement exercises, and Polly looked down at him with a certain secret pride before she made her presence known. He was so altogether right, she had decided long ago, this grandfather Admiral of hers. He had been retired from active service for years, and still she never could understand how the naval forces of the country managed to get along without him. He was seventy now, but as tall and straight-shouldered as a certain naval cadet in the full-length oil painting over the mantel in the library. His cheek was as rosy and clear as Polly’s own, and his eyes like hers were as brown and bright as a robin’s. He wore a moustache and long imperial, both silver white, and there was an air of distinction about him that was totally indescribable. Polly declared that even the cab horses standing around the Capitol grounds bowed their heads when the Admiral passed by. She slipped her hands over his eyes now, before he had discovered her presence.