"Why-e-e-e! " said I. "Truly honest?"
"Why, yes!" said Jessie. "How many've you?"
"Just a horrid old Leghorn!" said I. "And it's been pressed over and over, and the trimmings washed, and I can't bear it!"
And I was telling her about the chip jockey hat that Sally Carroll's aunt bought her for a birthday present, when the buggy came to the door.
"Come, say good-bye to the little girl, my love," said the lady, smiling down at me.
Jessie threw her arms around my neck and whispered that I was the best girl she ever knew, and that she should write me a letter when she got to Boston, and hopped in.
The lady shook hands with Ma, and thanked her for being so kind, and then turned to Polly and said, softly:
"You good Polly, I must do something for you. Wont you let me?"—and put her hand in her pocket.
I never saw Polly so mad but once before, and that was when Tom chucked Queen Victoria into the churn, because she wouldn't let him have but a quarter of an apple-pie to take to school. I mean Polly wouldn't. She walked into the buttery, and banged the door behind her as hard as ever she could.
The lady didn't say anything, but her cheeks were rather pink, and she bent and kissed me as if to hide them. Then Pa helped her into the buggy, and they drove away.