All this time Mother Fisher had sat quite still, her black eyes fastened on Polly's face. "I don't know," she said slowly, "about their going now."
"Oh, Mrs. Fisher," cried Mrs. Whitney, in dismay, "you can't think of—" but she didn't finish, on seeing Mrs. Fisher's face. Instead, she went softly out and closed the door.
"I didn't mean—" mumbled Polly again, and then she tumbled down on her knees and hid her face on Mamsie's lap, and sobbed as hard as she could.
"Yes, that's the trouble, Polly," Mother Fisher's hands were busy smoothing the brown hair; "you didn't mean to, but you said it just the same; and that's the mischief of it, not to mean to say a thing, and yet say it."
"O dear me!" wailed Polly, burrowing deeper within the folds of the black alpaca apron. "Why did I? O dear!"
