Miss Jerusha unbolted the door, slid back the great bar, opened the upper half, and stood there. She was a big woman, with sharp black eyes, and spectacles—over which she looked—which to Polly was much worse, for that gave her four eyes.
“Well, and what do you want?” she asked.
“I came to see—I mean my ma sent me,” stammered poor Polly.
“And who is your ma?” demanded Miss Jerusha, as much like a policeman as anything; “and where do you live?”
“I live in Primrose Lane,” replied Polly, wishing very much that she was back there.
“I don't want to know where you live, before I know who you are,” said Miss Jerusha; “you should answer the question I asked first; always remember that.”
“My ma's Mrs. Pepper,” said Polly.
“Mrs. who?” repeated Miss Jerusha.
By this time Polly was so worn that she came very near turning and fleeing, but she thought of her mother's disappointment in her, and the loss of the news, and stood quite still.
“What is it, Jerusha?” a gentle voice here broke upon Polly's ear.