“What boy?” said Polly, very much puzzled.
“I was going to dust him, and the other books.”
“Oh, you mean you were going to dust the books,” said Polly, beginning to see a little light.
“Yes,” said David, trying to keep back the sobs.
“Well, stop crying and tell me all about it—every single thing.” Polly gathered him up more closely. “Now then, Davie, you began to dust the boy.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Davie in a fresh anguish; “I didn’t dust him a bit; not once, Polly—O dear!”
“Why?” asked Polly.
“He had a slate and pencil, and—and—he was going to school,” said Davie in another outburst of grief.
“Oh, I see,” said Polly with more light, “and you wanted to read about him?”
“Yes, I did,” said Davie; “it told all about him.”