Heavy steps sounded along the oil-cloth on the hall and the big door was thrown open. Yes, it was just as dreadful as she expected! There was the minister’s sister.
“Go right away,” said Miss Jerusha, shaking a long, bony hand; “don’t you know any better’n to come to this door?”
“My mother sent me, and—” gasped Polly, with shaking fingers hanging fast to the little blue bowl.
“Your mother?—well, didn’t she know any better’n to have you come to this door?” broke in Miss Jerusha, with asperity; “an’ who is she, anyway?” all in the same breath.
“She’s Mrs. Pepper, and oh—”
“Oh, are you one of those Pepper children who live in that old brown house all down at the heel?” interrupted Miss Jerusha.
“Yes,” said Polly, with a warm little throb at her heart. Wasn’t it just the dearest place on earth, and what would she give to be there now!
“Well, you go right away,” commanded the minister’s sister, decidedly. “You needn’t come begging here. I declare, if you hain’t brought a bowl this blessed minute.”
“Oh, we never begged in our lives,” cried Polly, in horror, every bit of color flying from her round cheek. Then she jumped off from the door-stone, only one thought possessing her,—to get to Mamsie.
“Jerusha, who is it?” The parson’s wife came out of the keeping-room to the front door.