“Now,” said Polly, drawing a long breath, as she and Ben stole away into a corner to “talk over” and lay plans, “what does it mean?”
“Never mind,” said Ben; “as long as she's given us leave I don't care what it is.”
“I neither,” said Polly, with the delicious feeling as if the whole world were before them where to choose; “it'll be just gorgeous, Ben!”
“What's that?” asked Ben, who was not as much given to long words as Polly, who dearly loved to be fine in language as well as other things.
“Oh, it's something Jappy said one day; and I asked him, and he says it's fine, and lovely, and all that,” answered Polly, delighted that she knew something she could really tell Ben.
“Then why not say fine?” commented Ben, practically, with a little upward lift of his nose.
“Oh, I'd know, I'm sure,” laughed Polly. “Let's think what'll we do for Christmas—how many weeks are there, anyway, Ben?” And she began to count on her fingers.
“That's no way,” said Ben, “I'm going to get the Almanac.” So he went to the old clock where hanging up by its side, was a “Farmer's Almanac.”
“Now, we'll know,” he said, coming back to their corner. So with heads together they consulted and counted up till they found that eight weeks and three days remained in which to get ready.
“Dear me!” said Polly. “It's most a year, isn't it, Ben?”