“My—mother—wants—” began Peletiah again.
“Yes, yes, we understand, Peletiah,” said Polly, recovering her spirits that had fallen on account of Miss Jerusha, for surely the minister’s wife would make her be kind to them; Polly could believe that, after to-day—“and aren’t you ashamed, Joel?” all in the same breath.
“He keeps saying the same thing over and over,” cried Joel, very much disgusted, “and he doesn’t tell about Dave and me a bit, and I know she wants us, too,” he added, in an injured tone.
“My—mother—wants—” began Peletiah once more.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” cried Polly, quickly. “Now, Joel, keep still. And we’ll be so glad to go, Phronsie and I, that is, if Mamsie will say we may. And please tell your mother so, and, oh, thank her ever so much, please.” Polly folded and unfolded her hands in a dreadful panic lest she might not be saying just the right thing, for it was the first time an invitation of this kind had come to her, and Mamsie away!
“And now you must stop and play with us,” Polly hurried to say, for there were lively indications on Joel’s part that he was about to return to the subject uppermost in his own mind. “Let’s think,” ran on Polly, wrinkling her brows, “what we want to do first.”
“He can’t play,” said Joel, with a sniff.
“Why can’t we play ‘Stage-coach’?” proposed Polly, to save further remarks from Joel. “Come, boys, let’s fix the chairs.” And she bustled about to make things pleasant for their guest, little Davie running to help her, and Phronsie getting dreadfully in the way.
“He doesn’t know how to play,” said Joel, loudly, supposing he hadn’t been understood.
“Come on, Joel,” called Polly, making such a rattle with the chairs that she couldn’t be supposed to hear conversation. Peletiah stood quite still and looked at them all.