The speaker paused as if she did not care to say more. She was a slender little person, not awe-inspiring at all. She had just driven up in a pretty, light carriage, and was still muffled in a soft fleecy wrap that fell around her like a cloud. The face that looked out from it was sweet and pale as a star. It brightened into radiance as Polly, a veritable fairy now in her party fluffs and ruffs and ribbons, sprang out on the porch and flung herself into Miss Stella’s arms.
“Marraine! Marraine!” she cried rapturously,—“my own darling Marraine!”
“Why will you let the child give you that ridiculous name, my dear?” protested grandmamma, disapprovingly.
“Because—because I have the right to it,” laughed the lady, as Polly nestled close to her side. “I am her godmother real and true,—am I not, Polykins? And we like the pretty French name for it better.”
“Oh, much better!” assented Polly. “‘Godmother’ is too old and solemn to suit Marraine. Oh!” (with another rapturous hug) “it was so good of you to come all the way from Newport just for my party, dear, dear Marraine!”
“All the way from Newport!” answered the lady. “Why, that dear letter you sent would have brought me from the moon. You will be ten years old to-night, it said,—ten years old! O Pollykins! Pollykins!” (There was a little tremor in the voice.) “And you asked if I could come and help you with your party. I could and I would, so here I am! And here is your birthday present.”
Marraine flung a slender golden chain around Polly’s neck.
“Oh, you darling,—you darling!” murmured Polly. “But you are the best of all birthday presents, Marraine,—the very best of all!”
“Now, really we must stop all this ‘spooning,’ Pollykins, and start things,” said Marraine, dropping her, and emerging in a shining silvery robe, with a big bunch of starry jessamine pinned on her breast.
“You are not going to bother with the children, surely, Stella?” said dad, who had drawn near the speaker.