“Here,” called Polly, peremptorily, “I’ll kiss you first of all, on your forehead, because I don’t like all your whiskers, you know,” and the man stooped for his good-by, and then ran, stumbling, out of the shed and away to the cow pasture.
“I said good-by to the cows and all the hens and the pigs when I first got up,” said Polly, turning to her friends; “and I gave Prince some oats and said good-by to him right after breakfast. Now, Uncle Blodgett, it’s your turn.”
The old man swung her quickly up into his arms and gave her a hearty kiss.
“Here,” he said, as he set her down, “you take this bunch o’ slippery elm to keep me in mind, and you take this knife. One blade’s all right, and ’twould be an extra fine article if the other blade was fixed up a bit.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Polly, fervently, as she slipped her two presents into her petticoat pocket, “you’re just as good as you can be. Perhaps I shall come back here to stay, but, anyway, Miss Pomeroy would let me come to see you all, sometimes, I’m sure.”
“I reckon you’ll never come back here,” muttered Uncle Blodgett to the chopping block, “not to stay, if that Pomeroy woman has got eyes and a heart.”
Mrs. Ramsdell pressed Polly fiercely to her breast, and then let her go, after a searching look into the brown eyes.
“There, that’s over with,” she said, firmly. “One more thing gone, along with all the rest.”
“But I shan’t forget you,” faltered Polly, whose eyes were getting very misty indeed.
“Of course you won’t, dear child,” quavered Aunty Peebles, as she folded Polly in her arms, and as she released the little girl she pressed a tiny pin cushion into her hand, which speedily found a hiding-place with the slippery elm and the bladeless knife.