“I don’t suppose another such good child ever lived, according to Miss Hetty’s ideas,” said Mrs. Manser, dismally. “She’d never been here in town since she was a baby, and the mother’s folks brought her and Bobby, the twin, one summer to Pomeroy Oaks. As I’ve told you, both parents died, leastways they were destroyed in an accident, when the twins were less than a year old.”
“And Bobby lives with his grandpa and grandma now,” said Polly, with the air of reciting an oft-repeated lesson, “and folks say that saw him when he was here last winter that he just sits and reads all the time; he doesn’t care for play or being out-doors much; and he never makes a speck of dirt or a mite of noise. And when somebody said what a good child he was, Miss Hetty Pomeroy, she said, ‘Wait till you see Eleanor!’ So anybody can tell what she must have been,” concluded poor little Polly, with a gasping breath.
“And so, of course,” said Mrs. Manser, fixing a forlorn gaze on the little figure in stiffly starched pink gingham, “if you run wild out-doors, picking flowers and chasing round after the live stock and wasting time with the birds the way you’ve been allowed to do here, you’ll lose your chance, that’s all. You came of good folks: your mother was my third cousin and your father was a well-meaning man, though he wasn’t forehanded, and always enjoyed poor health. I’ve brought you up the best I could for over seven years, but I expect nothing but what Miss Hetty’ll send you back when the month’s up.”
“I’ll try real hard not to lose the chance,” said Polly, earnestly. Her eyes shone with an odd mixture of determination and fright; there was, moreover, a decided suggestion of tears, but Mrs. Manser, with her head in her hands again, failed to notice it.
“It isn’t to be supposed you can take Eleanor’s place,” she groaned. “You’re willing to fetch and carry, and you’ve got a fair disposition, but you do hate to stay still. Your father was like that—one of these restless folks.”
Polly’s face was overcast with doubt and trouble, but she stood her ground. “I’ll be just as like Eleanor as ever I can,” she said, slowly. “If I could only ask Miss Pomeroy just what Eleanor would have done every day, I guess I could do the same. But you’ve told me I mustn’t speak about Eleanor, because Miss Pomeroy doesn’t want anybody to.” Polly looked wistfully at Mrs. Manser’s bowed head.
“That makes it harder,” said Polly, when there was no answer to this half-question, save another groan, “but I guess I can manage someway.” Her face looked as nearly stern as was possible for such a combination of soft curves and dimples, but her eyes were misty.
Through the open door the soft air of the April morning blew in to her, and her little body thrilled with the love of the spring, and living, growing out-door friends. But if on her behavior depended the bestowal of Miss Hetty’s princely sum, Manser Farm should have it. In all the ten years of Polly’s life she had never before heard of such a large amount of money, except in arithmetic examples, which, as everybody knows, deal with all things in a bold way, unhampered by probability.
With a final groan, Mrs. Manser rose and went to the door. Then she turned quickly to Polly.
“Here comes Miss Hetty now, up the road,” she said. “Go and make your goodbyes to the folks, child, and put on your hat and jacket and then get your bag, so as not to keep her waiting—she may be in a hurry.”