“Mercy no!” Polly gasped for breath. “You can’t think,” she panted.
“Hold on!” Ben pounded her on the back. “You’re going like a steam engine, Polly.”
“Well, I feel like a steam engine,” said Polly, with another gasp. “Oh, Ben, you—can’t ever guess—what’s happened.”
“Come on over here.” Ben dragged her off to the stone wall. “There now, tell me all about it.”
“Well, in the first place,” said Polly, sitting down on the wall, Ben by her side, and drawing a long breath, “I don’t ever mean to be so bad as I was this morning, Ben.”
She folded her hands in her lap, and a sorrowful little look came into her brown eyes.
“You weren’t bad,” contradicted Ben stoutly; “and anyway, if you were, I was worse.”
“Oh, no, Ben,” said Polly quickly; “you are never as bad as I am, and you always see something better ahead.”
“Indeed I don’t, Polly,” declared Ben, “you’re the one to pretend that things are good, and you have such splendid plans. I never can think of anything. Well, anyway, tell what’s happened at home.”
“Ben,” said Polly, suddenly lifting her face, the color rushing all over it, “just when the potatoes are all gone, and there isn’t much bread in the pail, what do you think—you can’t guess, so I’ll tell you. Mr. Atkins has asked Davie to come now and then to help him in his store.”