“Well!” said a voice close up by Polly's chair, that made her skip with apprehension, it was so like Miss Jerusha Henderson's—Joel was whooping away behind the bedstead to his horses that had become seriously entangled, so he didn't hear anything. But when Polly said, bashfully, “I can't see anything, ma'am,” he came up red and shining to the surface, and stared with all his might.
“I came to see you, little girl,” said Miss Jerusha severely, seating herself stiffly by Polly's side.
“Thank you, ma'am,” said Polly, faintly.
“Who's this boy?” asked the lady, turning around squarely on Joel, and eying him from head to foot.
“He's my brother Joel,” said Polly.
Joel still stared.
“Which brother?” pursued Miss Jerusha, like a census-taker.
“He is next to me,” said Polly, wishing her mother was home; “he's nine, Joel is.”
“He's big enough to do something to help his mother,” said Miss Jerusha, looking him through and through. “Don't you think you might do something, when the others are sick, and your poor mother is working so hard?” she continued, in a cold voice.
“I do something,” blurted out Joel, sturdily, “lots and lots!”