“Oh, Davie!” exclaimed Polly, greatly mortified.
“It’s no wonder that you ask, Davie,” Miss Parrott smiled at him, so he raised his head, “so many years have passed. Well, which of those two little girls do you think I was?”
David considered slowly—then put his finger on one. There was something in the kind eyes that made him think of Miss Parrott when she smiled at him.
“Which do you think, Polly?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but I think this one,” and she chose the other little girl.
“Davie is right,” said Miss Parrott, with another smile for him. And Polly beamed at him, for it really was nicer that he had guessed the right one.
“Did Towsle like to have his picture taken?” asked Polly.
“No,” said Miss Parrott, with a little laugh, “not at first. He barked dreadfully at the man who was trying to take the picture, and he said at last that he couldn’t let the dog be in it. And Uncle John said then nobody would have a picture taken at all.”
“O dear!—what did you do?” cried Polly.
“And wasn’t there any picture?” cried David, dreadfully worried.