It was so pleading a tone, very like Polly’s, that Miss Parrott turned back and sat down in the high-backed chair, regarding her visitor curiously.
“You are so good to me and to my children that I cannot thank you enough, Miss Parrott,” began Mrs. Pepper.
“There—there,” returned Miss Parrott, raising a protesting hand, only it sparkled with ancestral rings. “Mary Pote brought back your thanks, so say no more about that.”
“Miss Parrott.” Mrs. Pepper hesitated a bit, then took the plunge, “I very much wish that a boy might go to the circus with me and my children.” It was all done in one sentence.
“A boy?” Miss Parrott gazed at her. It seemed like a long time, but it was really only a breathing space. “What boy, Mrs. Pepper?”
“Jimmy Skinner.”
Miss Parrott’s long face dropped. If Mary Pote had been there, she could tell the “signs of the times” it gave. Mrs. Pepper could guess, but her black eyes did not droop, and now she went on steadily.
“His mother lives on Fletcher Road, a hard-working woman, glad to do anything.”
Miss Parrott’s brow wrinkled. “Go on,” she said, “if you please, Mrs. Pepper.”
“And Jimmy thinks a great deal of his mother,” Mrs. Pepper considering it wise to bring this point to the front as speedily as possible, went on pleadingly.