If he hadn’t called her Mrs. Thumb! and if he hadn’t laughed! Dr. Field was a wise man in every thing else, but he didn’t understand little folks.
He had really crossed the street to say something delightful, for a wonder. The sabbath school was to have a picnic next day, and he wanted to be the one to tell the good news; but, in laughing at Posy, he had forgotten it.
The children went home. Pollio led Posy into the parlor, and was affectionately drying her eyes with the lace curtain, when Mr. Lane, the new minister, called. Eliza went for Mrs. Pitcher; and Posy was going too, but her brother held her back. He thought they both ought to stay and entertain the stranger till mamma came down.
“Good-morning, my dears,” said Mr. Lane, with a smile very different from Dr. Field’s: “I suppose this is Judge Pitcher’s little daughter?”
“Yes, sir,” said Posy, blushing.
“Me, too,” cried Pollio, stepping up, and offering his little hand. He was tired of being told that he did not look like the rest of the family, and meant to explain matters at once. “Folks think I’m French or Latin, but I’m not. I’m my father’s youngest son.”
“Oh! I’m very glad to hear it. Pardon me for not knowing you at once,” laughed the minister. “So you are this dear little girl’s brother?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Pollio, much pleased to hear her called “a dear little girl.” “Oh, I tell you, she’s a jolly good sister! Sometimes I think she’s better than ME!”
The minister laughed again, but very pleasantly. He had a fair, sunny face, and kind manner; and children always opened their little hearts to him at once. He took Posy on his knee, and she sat there quietly; blushing, it is true, but more for Pollio’s speeches than for fear of Mr. Lane. It was strange what things that boy would say sometimes. Posy being so very silent, he thought he ought to keep up the conversation: so he leaned his elbow on the minister’s other knee, and asked the first question that came into his little head:—