“Polly,” the good woman said, leaning over her, “you poor, pretty creeter, you; I'm goin' to tell you somethin'—there, there, just to think! Joel's goin' to get well!”
“Oh, Mrs. Beebe!” cried Polly, tumbling over in a heap on the floor, her face, as much as could be seen under the bandage, in a perfect glow, “Is he, really?”
“Yes, to be sure; the danger's all over now,” said the little old lady, inwardly thinking—“If I hadn't a-come!”
“Well, then, the Lord wants him to,” cried Polly, in rapture; “don't he, Mrs. Beebe?”
“To be sure—to be sure,” repeated the kind friend, only half understanding.
“Well, I don't care about my eyes, then,” cried Polly; and to Mrs. Beebe's intense astonishment and dismay, she spun round and round in the middle of the floor.
“Oh, Polly, Polly!” the little old lady cried, running up to her, “do stop! the doctor wouldn't let you! he wouldn't really, you know! it'll all go to your eyes.”
“I don't care,” repeated Polly, in the middle of a spin; but she stopped obediently; “seems as if I just as soon be blind as not; it's so beautiful Joey's going to get well!”