Polly was on the back porch, a very disturbed and somewhat indignant Towser in her arms, evidently a party to the undertaking, and to her Mrs. Deane breathlessly appealed.
“Polly! What are they doing?” she gasped.
“You’ll have to ask the boys, Mama.” Polly’s eyes were dancing. “Nid, here’s Mama, and she wants to know what you’re doing!”
Nid hurried up, a dripping brush in one hand and a smear of white paint across one cheek, followed by Laurie. The others paused at their various tasks to watch smilingly.
“Painting the house, Mrs. Deane!”
“Painting the house! My house? Why—why—what—who—”
“Yes’m. There’s the blue paint. It’s as near like the old as we could find. You don’t think it’s too dark, do you?”
“But I don’t understand, Nid Turner!” said Mrs. Deane helplessly. “Who told you to? Who’s going to pay for it?”
“It’s all paid for, ma’am. It—it’s a sort of Christmas present from us—from the school. You—you don’t mind, do you?”
“Well, I never did!” Mrs. Deane looked from Ned to Laurie, her mouth quivering. “I—I don’t know what to say. I guess I’ll—I’ll go see if any one’s—in the shop, Polly. Did you think you—heard the bell?” Mrs. Deane’s eyes were frankly wet as she turned hurriedly away and disappeared inside. Ned viewed Polly anxiously.