“Won’t you sit down, Peletiah?” said Polly, with her best company manner. “Joel, get a chair—” For Joel had turned on his heel to make tracks for his rabbit-box again.
So Joel had to whirl around, but little Davie had seen his face. “Oh, let me, Polly,” he begged, but Polly shook her head.
So Joel dragged up one of the chairs ranged against the wall, and pushed it back of the minister’s son, but Peletiah paid no sort of attention to it.
“My—mother—wants—Mrs.—Pepper—to—let—Polly—and—Phronsie—come—to—the—parsonage—to-morrow—morning—and—help—her—and—stay—to—dinner,” he said, in a sing-song voice.
“What?” cried Polly, not believing her ears. Joel, who on furnishing the chair considered his hospitable duties all completed, was hurrying back to his beloved rabbit-box when “stay to dinner” caught his ear, and he bounded back.
“My—mother—wants—Mrs.—Pepper—to—let—Polly—and—Phronsie—come—to—the—parsonage—to-morrow—morning—and—help—her—and—stay—to—dinner,” said Peletiah again, not moving a muscle.
“Oh, goody!” cried Polly, clapping her hands. Then she thought of Miss Jerusha, and her face fell.
“Oh, didn’t she want us? Say, aren’t Dave and I going?” Joel plucked Peletiah’s sleeve, and thrust his face eagerly into the midst of the group.
“My—mother—wants—Mrs.—Pepper—to—let—Polly—and—Phronsie—come—to—the—parsonage—to-morrow—morning—and—help—her—and—stay—to—dinner,” said Peletiah again, patiently.
“O dear, dear, didn’t she ask us?” cried Joel, terribly disappointed.