“He’s scatter-witted, I know,” said Polly to herself, “but I shall miss seeing Bob, because I’m used to him.”
Thursday morning came all too soon. Miss Pomeroy was to come for Polly about ten o’clock. At half-past nine Polly, with anxiety written all over her rosy face, was twirling slowly around in the middle of the kitchen, while Mrs. Manser regarded her forlornly from her position in the doorway, with a hand pressed against her forehead.
“I suppose you’ll have to do as you are,” she said at last, with a heavy sigh. “My head aches so, I’m fit for nothing, or I’d see what more I could do with that hair of yours. Is that the very flattest you can get it, Mary? I hope you’re going to remember to answer Miss Pomeroy when she says ‘Mary’ better than you do me, child. It’s your rightful name, and, of course Polly’s no kind of a name for a girl to be adopted by. Did you say you’d done the very best you could with your hair?”
“Yes’m,” said Polly, twisting her hands together, locking and unlocking her fingers in evident excitement. “I wet it sopping wet, and then I patted it all down hard; but it doesn’t stay down very well, I’m afraid.”
Polly was right; in spots her hair was still damp and sleek on her little head, but around these satisfactory spots her short curls rose and danced defiance to brush and water.
“Oh, Ebenezer, I wish I had fur like yours instead of hair!” cried Polly, but Ebenezer only blinked at her, and retired hastily behind the stove as if he feared she might attempt an exchange of head-covering.
“Well,” said Mrs. Manser, dropping into a rocking-chair and clasping her head with both hands, “all I’ve got to say is, you must do the best you can by Miss Pomeroy and all of us. You know just how much depends on Miss Pomeroy’s adopting you. You know what it’ll mean to Father Manser and me and the old folks that I board for almost nothing to keep them off the town, if you are adopted. And Grandma—you’re always saying you’re so fond of her—you’d like her to have one of those new hearing apparatuses, I should suppose.”
“Oh, yes’m,” said Polly, eagerly, “I do love Grandma Manser so, and I want her to have the ap-apyoratus. Will it cost a great deal?”
“I don’t just know,” said Mrs. Manser; “but they say Miss Pomeroy’s going to give five hundred dollars to whatever institution or place she finds the child she keeps, and a present of money to the folks that have brought her up. She didn’t mention it to me, but the butcher told me yesterday ’twas known all about, and she’s been sent for to several places to see children. But she never took a fancy to one till she saw you in church with me. She thinks you’ve got a look about the eyes that’s like Eleanor, that was her brother’s little girl who died last fall. I guess you’re about as different from her as a child could be, every other way.”
“I suppose Eleanor was an awful good, quiet little girl, wasn’t she?” asked Polly, timidly. “Her name sounds kind of still. I don’t believe she ever tore her clothes, did she?”