“Costs money,” replied Mrs. Pepper. “We've got too many in the house to have any outside.”
“Oh, dear,” said Polly, with a red face that was toasting about as much as the bread she was holding on the point of an old fork; “we never have had anything. There,” she added at last; “that's the best I can do; now I'll put the butter on this little blue plate; ain't that cunning, ma?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, approvingly; “it takes you, Polly.” So Polly trotted first to Ben, up the crooked, low stairs to the loft; and while she regaled him with the brown toast and butter, she kept her tongue flying on the subject of the little chicks, and all that she saw on the famous Henderson visit. Poor Ben pretended hard to eat, but ate nothing really; and Polly saw it all, and it cut her to the heart—so she talked faster than ever.
“Now,” she said, starting to go back to Phronsie; “Ben Pepper, just as soon as you get well, we'll have some chickens—so there!”
“Guess we sha'n't get 'em very soon,” said Ben, despondently, “if I've got to lie here; and, besides, Polly, you know every bit we can save has got to go for the new stove.”
“Oh, dear,” said Polly, “I forgot that; so it has; seems to me everything's giving out!”
“You can't bake any longer in the old thing,” said Ben, turning over and looking at her; “poor girl, I don't see how you've stood it so long.”
“And we've been stuffing it,” cried Polly merrily, “till 'twon't stuff any more.”
“No,” said Ben, turning back again, “that's all worn out.”
“Well, you must go to sleep,” said Polly, “or mammy'll be up here; and Phronsie hasn't had her breakfast either.”