“Yes, and that other one,” said Peletiah, “and I’m going to play it on Sunday because it’s about Jerusalem.”
“Oh, we don’t ever play it on Sunday,” said Polly, in horror at the mere thought.
“I’m going to play it on Sunday because it’s about Jerusalem, and Ezekiel is, too,” declared Peletiah, in exactly the same tone as before, as Polly and Phronsie hurried up the path to the door.
There was the parson’s wife waiting for them, and she drew the children in, Peletiah following solemnly; and in the big bedroom, that Polly had been in once before when she had come with a message from her mother to Mrs. Henderson, who was sick, they were told to lay off their things.
O dear me, was ever anything so elegant as to go visiting and be treated like grown-up ladies! And what place could be so splendid as that bedroom with big pink flowers trailing all over the chintz curtains and hanging from the bed-tester. Polly made slow work of getting Phronsie and herself ready to follow the minister’s wife, her eyes were so busy.
“You like it, dear?” said Mrs. Henderson, smiling down at her.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” sighed Polly, the color flying all over her face.
“It’s be—yewtiful,” hummed Phronsie, not knowing in the least what for, but because Polly said so. And the parson’s wife laughed again and taking a hand of either little Pepper, she led them out and closed the door.
“Now, then, Polly,” she said, “what do you suppose I wanted you to come over for?”
“To help you,” said Polly, happily. “Oh, I’m so glad, dear Mrs. Henderson, please, may I?”