“Si, señor.”
“Those things for us?”
“Si, señor.”
“What are they?”
“Si, señor.”
“Exactly! Well, are there any letters?”
“Si, señor.” Whereupon he drew one from his gorgeously-decorated leather belt.
Philip reached for it, and Polly leaned over his shoulder, devoured with curiosity.
“It’s for Aunt Truth,” she said; “and—yes, I am sure it is Mrs. Howard’s writing; and if it is—”
Hereupon, as Manuel spoke no English, and neither Philip nor Polly could make inquiries in Spanish, Polly darted to the cart in her usual meteoric style, put one foot on the hub of a wheel and climbed to the top like a squirrel, snatched off a corner of the canvas cover, and cried triumphantly, “I knew it! Elsie is coming! Here’s a tent, and some mattresses and pillows. Hurry! Help me down, quick! Oh, slow-coach! Keep out of the way and I’ll jump! Give me the letter. I can run faster than you can.” And before the vestige of an idea had penetrated Philip’s head, nothing could be seen of Polly but a pair of twinkling heels and the gleam of a curly head that caught every ray of the sun and turned it into ruddier gold.