Mrs. Parlin sat knitting on the sofa, Mrs. Clifford was sewing, and Miss Louise crocheting. They all looked up and greeted the visitor politely, but it seemed as if a dark cloud had entered the room. Miss Polly seated herself in a rocking-chair, and began to take off her bonnet, sighing as she untied the strings, and sighing again as she took the three pins out of her shawl.
"I hope you are well this fine weather," said Mrs. Parlin, cheerily.
"As well as ever I expect to be," replied Miss Polly, in a resigned tone.
Then she opened the lids of her basket with a dismal creak, and took out her knitting, which was as gray as a November sky. Afterwards she slowly pinned a corn-cob to the right side of her belt, and began to knit. At the end of every needle she drew a deep breath, and felt the stocking carefully to make sure there were no "nubs" in it. She talked about the "severe drowth" and some painful cases of sickness, after which she took out her snuff-box, and then the three ladies saw that she had something particular to say.
"Where is your little boy, Maria?"
She always called Mrs. Clifford Maria, for she had known her from a baby.
"Horace is at Augusta; I left him there the other day."
"Yes," said Polly, settling her mournful black cap, "so I heard! I was very, very sorry," and she shook her head dolefully, as if it had been a bell and she were tolling it—"very, very sorry!"
Mrs. Clifford could not but wonder why.
"It is a dreadful thing to happen in a family! I'm sure, Maria, I never heard that stealing was natural to either side of the house!"