“O dear me!” And then Polly was off, and Phronsie after her, to kneel down on the garret floor, where some one long years before had pasted strips of newspaper over the cracks.
“There’s printing on it,” she said, trying to read it, spreading her hands on either side. Phronsie immediately did the same.
“J-o-n-a; what is that, dear Mrs. Henderson?” for the rest was cut off.
“Why, that was the man’s name,” said Mrs. Henderson. “I suppose it was Jonathan,” leaning over to read the old strip of newspaper. “And he was a blacksmith; see, Polly.” She pointed to another strip. Sure enough. The whole word, “Blacksmith,” was there, bold and plain!
“It’s nice the whole word was saved, isn’t it?” said Polly, patting it. So Phronsie had to crawl over and pat it, too.
“Did he live here?” asked Polly, finding it impossible to leave Jonathan, the Blacksmith, and sitting back on her heels to regard the minister’s wife.
“No, I don’t suppose he did,” said Mrs. Henderson; “that strip was cut from an old newspaper; but perhaps he lived somewhere about here,” she hastened to add, as Polly’s face fell.
“I wish he had lived exactly here,” said Polly, with a sigh, and letting her gaze wander over the old rafters.
“Well, now, don’t you want to see what I’m going to do first? and you are to help me.” Mrs. Henderson was by this time over in the corner where a big beam ran down to the eaves, and tugging at an old hair trunk.
“Oh, let me help you!” cried Polly, springing to her feet, and rushing over.