“Bad luck to ’em,” exclaimed the cross cook, coming up to look over the housemaid’s shoulder. “Well, I never—jest look at ’em a-racin’ an’ a-chasin’ all over th’ place! Did anybody ever see sech goin’s-on in this garden before?”
The butler didn’t dare, since his reproof in the dining-room, to join this conversation, but he shrugged up his shoulders, as he kept on at his task of polishing up the family plate.
And Miss Parrott being nicely rested, more by hearing the happy voices and watching the flying feet, than by sitting still on the little stone seat, got up presently. “Come, children,” she called, “we must choose Polly’s plant,” and in almost no time at all, they both stood before her.
Around and around the old-fashioned garden bright with hollyhocks and all sorts of blossoms and shrubs, they went, Miss Parrott with her finger on her chin, a way she had when she was thinking, and Polly holding her breath whenever a stop was made before a little plant.
At last Miss Parrott paused before a row of little yellow primroses, lifting their bright faces as if to say, “Take me—oh do, take me!”
“I really believe, Polly,” said Miss Parrott, looking down at them, “that you will like one of these. I am sure they were great favorites of mine when I was a little girl.”
For answer Polly threw herself down on her knees, and laid her flushed cheek against a small cluster of yellow blooms.
“You may pick out the one you like best,” said Miss Parrott.
“Oh, this one—if you please,” cried Polly, lifting a little pot. “I choose this one—and thank you, dear Miss Parrott.”
