Presently Abiel Babbidge appeared, shambling and shamefaced, with one of the King children hanging to either hand,—the other boys trying to catch on somewhere, and not succeeding very well.
Polly reined her horse up to his side. “How do you do, Mr. Babbidge?” she said, putting out her dainty riding-glove. “I am the children’s mother, and I want to thank you for all the kind care you gave them yesterday.”
“O Moses and Methuselah!” exclaimed Abiel Babbidge, startled out of any sort of manners; “ye be! Why, I can’t tech ye’re hand with this.” He extricated one of his horny palms from Barby’s grasp, and held it up to her.
Polly shook it warmly. “I cannot thank you, Mr. Babbidge, as I want to. May I see your wife?” and she rode up to the old horse-block and dismounted.
Abiel Babbidge’s face fell. “My wife is sick,” he said slowly, and something like a tear fell from his eye. Elyot pulled away his hand, and looked up in astonishment at him.
“I know she is not well,” said Polly gently; “but I thought perhaps you would think she could see me and my sister,” taking Phronsie’s hand. “But not if you do not think best, Mr. Babbidge.”
“Ye may,” said Mr. Babbidge abruptly. “I declar to gracious I sh’d be glad to have her see ye both. ’Twould bring her right up, mebbe.”
Old Mr. King got slowly out of the dog-cart while Mr. Babbidge was escorting Polly and Phronsie in. On the top step, Polly turned and said softly, “Now run away, children, and don’t make a noise under the window.”
“Oh, we’re going in!” cried Elyot, pushing with all his might to get in first.
“Mamma says not,” said Polly; and they tumbled back quickly, and swarmed into the dog-cart to wait with Grandpapa.