“I don’t wonder, Polly, I’m sure.” Molly’s eyes glowed with pity, as they always did when Pauline spoke of her dead mother. She longed to tell Pauline how sorry she was for her, but the words would not come. What she did say was only this, “Your shoe-string’s untied, Polly, the right one.”
“Is it? Well, it might as well be the right as the left. It’s sure to be one or the other,” returned easy-going Pauline, stooping to fasten the offending lacing.
“Oh! won’t it be delightful if you and Paul can come to Santa Luzia, Polly? I hope you can stay at Mrs. Kitto’s a whole week.”
“Thank you, Molly dear, and I”—Pauline had been about to say that she hoped Molly and Kirke would stay at least that length of time at the camp; but suddenly remembered that there might not be room enough for them. She must ask her father.
“I—I suppose Auntie David will meet us at Santa Luzia,” she said, to finish the sentence.
“What does make you call her Auntie David, Pauline? You’ve never told me.”
“Oh, Paul and I began to call her that when we were little snips, and we’ve done it ever since. Auntie doesn’t mind. Her name is Davidson, you know. She married Uncle John Davidson.”
“Will Mr. Davidson come to Santa Luzia too, Polly?”
“Oh, no; Uncle John has gone East. He goes East every summer on business, and then Auntie comes to live with us. Lucky for Paul and me; lucky for papa too! Auntie David is papa’s only sister. I believe he thinks she made the world!”
“Well, I must skip back,” said Molly, with an important air. “Kirke has gone over to Mrs. Carillo’s to see if Manuel wants to keep Kirke’s cart and burro while we’re away; and mamma may want me to do some errands.”