"Well, don't, Polly," begged Jasper again.
"No, of course I won't," said Polly, with a little laugh, "but it won't be many weeks, you dear"—this to the piano, as she unwillingly got up from the music-stool, and let Jasper lead her off—"before you and I have all our good times together!"
* * * * *
Polly, in a soft white gown, sat on a low seat by Mother Fisher's side, her head in Mamsie's lap. It was after dinner, and the gas was turned low.
"Mamsie," said Polly, and she threw one hand over her head to clasp Mother Fisher's strong fingers closer, "it's so good to be home—oh! you can't think how I wanted you."
Just then somebody looked into Mother Fisher's bedroom.
"Oh! beg pardon," said Jasper, as he saw them. But there was so much longing in the voice that Polly called out, "Oh! come, Jasper. May he, Mamsie?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Fisher; "come in, Jasper."
Jasper came in quickly and stood a moment looking down at them. "It's so lovely to be home, Jasper," said Polly, looking up at him and playing with her mother's fingers.
"Isn't it?" cried Jasper, with feeling, "there never was anything so nice! Mrs. Fisher, may I sit down by you here?" and he went over to her where she sat on the sofa—it was the same big comfortable affair where Joel had flung himself, when he declared he could not keep on at school; and where Mamsie had often sat when the children brought her their troubles, declaring it was easier to tell her everything on the roomy, old-fashioned sofa, than anywhere else.