So Ben ran off, and presently Polly, her arm in a sling, came hurrying in.
"Bless my soul," cried the old gentleman, "if your cheeks aren't as rosy as if you had two good arms, and this was an every-day sort of excursion for pleasure."
[Illustration: "SO NICE, EVERYBODY IS GETTING ON SO WELL," SAID POLLY]
"It's so nice," said Polly, sitting down on one of Mrs. Higby's spare-room ottomans, on which that lady had worked a remarkable cat in blue worsted reposing on a bit of green sward, "to think that everybody is getting on so well," and she hugged her lame arm rapturously.
"Hem—hem! I should say so," breathed old Mr. Loughead, regarding her closely. "Where have they buried that woman?" he demanded suddenly.
Polly started. "Out in the meadow," she said softly. "Mrs. Higby wanted
it here instead of in the churchyard. It is under a beautiful oak-tree,
Mr. Loughead, and Mr. Higby is going to make a fence around it, and
Grandpapa is to put"—
"Up the stone, I suppose you mean," interrupted the old gentleman.
"Well, and when that's done, why, what can be said upon it, pray tell?
You don't know a thing about it—who in Christendom the woman was—not a
thing."
"Johnny's mother," said Polly sorrowfully, the corners of her mouth drooping; "that's going to be on it, and Grandpapa is to have the letters cut, telling about the accident; and Mrs. Higby hopes that sometime somebody will come to inquire about it. But I don't believe anybody ever will come in all this world," added Polly softly, "because there is no one left who belongs to Johnny," and she told the story the pale little mother had just finished when the car went over.
Old Mr. Loughead "hemmed," and exclaimed impatiently, and fidgeted in his chair, all through the recital. When it was over, and Polly sat quite still, "What are you going to do with that horrible boy?" he asked sharply. "Almshouse, I suppose, eh?"
"O, no!" declared Polly, in horror. "Phronsie is going to take him into the Home."