“Lost her? Did she die?”
“No,” was the soft sighing answer. “It was much worse than that. You see” (Miss Polly’s tone became confidential), “it was last summer, when I had the whooping cough. Did you ever have the whooping cough?”
“I believe I did,” replied Dan, whose memory of such minor ills was by no means clear.
“Then you know how awful it is. You can’t go to school or out to play, or anywhere. I had to stay in our own garden and grounds by myself, because all the girls’ mothers were afraid of me. The doctor said I must be out of doors, so I had a play house away down by the high box hedge in the maze; and took my dolls and things out there, and made the best of it. And then Meg found me. She was coming down the lane one day, and heard me talking to my dolls. I had to talk to them because there was no one else. And she peeped through the hedge and asked if she could come in and see them. I told her about the whooping cough, but she said she wasn’t afraid: that she had had it three times already, and her mother was dead and wouldn’t mind if she took it again. So she came in, and we played all the morning; and she came the next day and the next for weeks and weeks. Oh, we did have the grandest times together! You see, dad was away, and mamma was sick, and there was no one to bother us. I used to bring out apples and cookies and chocolate drops, and we had parties under the trees, and we promised to be real true friends forever. I gave her my pearl ring so she would always remember. It was that pearl ring that made all the trouble.” And Miss Polly’s voice trembled.
“How?” asked Dan very gently. He never had a sister or a girl cousin or any one to soften his ways or speech; and little Polly’s friendly trust was something altogether new and strangely sweet to him.
“Oh, it broke up everything!” faltered Miss Polly. “That evening an old woman came to the house and asked to see mamma,—oh, such a dreadful old woman! She hadn’t any bonnet or coat or gloves,—just a red shawl on her head, and an old patched dress, and a gingham apron. And when James and Elise and everybody told her mamma was sick, she said she would see her anyhow. And she did. She pushed her way upstairs to mamma, and talked awfully,—said she was a poor honest woman, if she did sell apples on the corner; and she was raising her grandchild honest; and she asked how her Meg came by that ring, and where she got it. And then mamma, who had turned pale and fluttery, sent for me; and I had to tell her all, and she nearly fainted.”
“Why?” asked Dan.
“Oh, because—because—I had Meg in the garden and played with her, and took her for a real true friend. You see, she wasn’t a nice little girl at all,” said Miss Polly, impressively. “Her grandmother had an apple stand at the street corner, and her brother cleaned fish on the wharf, and they lived in an awful place over a butcher’s shop; and mamma said she must not come into our garden again, and I mustn’t play with her or talk to her ever, ever again.”
There was no answer for a moment. Dan was thinking—thinking fast. It seemed time for him to say something,—to speak up in his own blunt way,—to put himself in his own honest place. But, with the new charm of this little lady’s flattering fancy on him, Dan’s courage failed. He felt that to acknowledge a bootblack past and a sausage shop future would be a shock to Miss Polly that would break off friendly relations forever.
“So you gave up your real true friend?” he said a little reproachfully, and Miss Polly hopped down from her rock perch and proceeded to make her way back to the yacht.