“Oh, let me brush it out,” begged Polly, jumping up to get the whisk broom.
“Well, you may,” said Mrs. Henderson, picking up Grandfather’s waistcoat to look it over, “and then you can roll up some fresh camphor. Dear me, I don’t see how the moths do get in so!”
“Oh, what fun!” cried Polly, her brown eyes sparkling as she brushed vigorously away, sticking her head well within the old chest to poke out the corners.
“It’s fun to-day because you are here, Polly, you and Phronsie,” laughed Mrs. Henderson, feeling just about the same age as one of the children.
“I’m glad I’m here,” said Polly, with a little thrill at Mrs. Henderson’s words. “And I’m glad Phronsie is here, too, but she doesn’t see all these perfectly beautiful things.” And Polly pulled herself out to sit, brush in hand, and look over at her.
“Never mind,” said the minister’s wife, hastily; “Phronsie is happy where she is. Don’t disturb her, Polly.”
So Polly fell to brushing away again.
“And now, Polly, you can do something more,” said Mrs. Henderson, when the old chest was all brushed out, and set in position again. “And it will help me so much. You can roll up some little bits of this camphor,” and she opened the brown-paper parcel she had brought up to the garret, “and put each of them in a piece of newspaper, and fold it into Grandfather’s waistcoat,—I always mean to keep that, Polly, for I remember him in it,—and then I can run down and see about my dinner.”
This was the best of all, Polly thought, to be intrusted to take care of Grandfather’s waistcoat all by herself, while the minister’s wife was downstairs seeing to her dinner!
“The newspapers are over there.” Mrs. Henderson pointed to the farther corner under the eaves. “I always keep a pile to wrap up things in.” So Polly ran over and got them, and presently she was busy as a bee in the old garret, with Phronsie still sitting up close to the broken-backed chair, and humming softly to herself, and patting every now and then the red woollen cape.