“No,” said Mrs. Pepper, going back to ascertain; “why, it's the parson himself! Deary! how we look!”
“Never mind, mammy,” called back Polly, longing to spring out of bed and fix up a bit.
“I'm sorry to hear the children are sick,” said Mrs. Henderson, coming in, in her sweet, gentle way.
“We didn't know it,” said the minister, “until this morning—can we see them?”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Mrs. Pepper; “Ben's upstairs; and Polly and Phronsie are in here.”
“Poor little things!” said Mrs. Henderson, compassionately; “hadn't you better,” turning to the minister, “go up and see Ben first, while I will visit the little girls?”
So the minister mounted the crooked stairs; and Mrs. Henderson went straight up to Polly's side; and the first thing Polly knew, a cool, gentle hand was laid on her hot head, and a voice said, “I've come to see my little chicken now!”
“Oh, ma'am,” said Polly, bursting into a sob, “I don't care about my eyes—only mammy—” and she broke right down.
“I know,” said the minister's wife, soothingly; “but it's for you to bear patiently, Polly—what do you suppose the chicks were doing when I came away?” And Mrs. Henderson, while she held Polly's hand, smiled and nodded encouragingly to Phronsie, who was staring at her from the other side of the bed.
“I don't know, ma'am,” said Polly; “please tell us.”