“Why, no, Laurie, they’re not. You see, they’re not very well off themselves, and the congregation isn’t a large one at all. A hundred dollars would be quite a lot of money to them.”
“So the poor old lady’s got to go to the poor-farm, eh?” mused Laurie, frowning.
“I’m afraid so,” sighed Polly. “She’s never talked to me about it, but mama said this morning that she guessed Miss Comfort had about reconciled herself. And just now she came in to apologize for not sending two cakes she had promised for this afternoon. I guess the poor dear’s too worried and upset to make them.”
“Yes, I guess so,” Laurie agreed. “I call that tough luck. ‘Miss Comfort.’ Gee, I’ll bet she hasn’t really known what comfort is, Polly!”
“Not since her mother died, probably. But she’s always been just as cheerful and happy as any one could be until just lately. She’s a perfect dear, Laurie, and I could cry when I think of her having to go to that po-poor-farm!”
Dismayed by the catch in Polly’s voice, and horribly afraid that she was really going to cry, Laurie suddenly recalled the fact that he must get back to school. “Well, I—I suppose there isn’t anything any one can do,” he murmured awkwardly. “Maybe the poor-farm won’t be so bad. I suppose it’s the idea of it that sort of gets her, eh? Well, I must be trundling along, Polly.”
Laurie gave a farewell suck at his straw, which resulted in only a gurgling sound at the bottom of his glass, and dropped off the counter.
“Well, see you to-morrow,” he announced cheerfully. “Good night, Polly.”
“Good night,” said Polly. “But you didn’t need to run away. I hadn’t any intention of cr-crying!”