In a few minutes out came Mr. Babbidge’s head and shoulders in the doorway. “They want ye,” he nodded to old Mr. King; who, mightily pleased to be summoned, wended his way to the steps.
“Somebody come and sit with those youngsters,” he cried, shaking his walking-stick at the bunch of them in the cart. So Ben got out of the drag, and ran up just in time to save the bay from getting a smart thwack from the whip that Johnny Fargo had captured.
“The next boy that gets hold of that whip will tumble out of this cart,” said Ben decidedly.
Polly sat by the side of the bed in the old bedroom that opened out of the kitchen, Phronsie stood by the foot, as Abiel Babbidge said to Mr. King, “There’s my wife, sir,” and pointed to the bed. Under the old patched bedquilt she lay, propped up by pillows; everything marvellously neat, but oh, so coarse and poor! She had a smile on her thin face; and her hand, all drawn up with rheumatism, was extended in simple courtesy of an old-time pattern.
“Oh! how do you do, madam?” said old Mr. King much shocked, and for the life of him not knowing what to say.
But Mrs. Babbidge knew no embarrassment. She asked her husband to get some more chairs from the kitchen and bring in; and when he, big and awkward, knocked down more things in the carrying out of this request than he could pause to pick up, she passed it serenely over, and smiled at him just the same.
Polly felt the tears in her eyes, in spite of all her efforts to keep them out. “Dear Mrs. Babbidge,” she said gently, “you know a mother who has had her little children restored to her as I have, and largely through your good husband’s kindness,”—here Mrs. Babbidge sent a proud glance over at him, at which he blushed like a girl under his big farmer’s hat he forgot to take off,—“finds it hard to express her thanks; and so I brought you, from my husband and from me, a little gift.” Here Polly laid down a small parcel on the patched bedquilt, and tucked it under one of the drawn and twisted hands.
“How about the Scrannage ladies?” asked old Mr. King, drawing Abiel off to a corner; “they’re pretty well off, I expect.”
“They hain’t got much but pride,” said Abiel, shifting from one foot to another, “but enough o’ that to carry this hull town.”
“Poor, are they?” asked the old gentleman.