“I was saying that I suppose you’re accustomed to play out of doors a good deal,” said Miss Hetty, a little sharply, “for you have such rosy cheeks. What are you thinking about, my dear?”
“I was thinking about Ebenezer, for one thing,” said Polly, truthfully. “Yes’m, my cheeks are always pretty red.” Then she was seized with dismay; probably Eleanor’s cheeks were white, like snowdrops. “They aren’t quite so red when I’m in the house,” she ventured, bravely, “and, of course, I shall be in the house a great deal now I’m getting on in years.”
Polly felt that this phrase, borrowed from Mrs. Manser’s stock, was most happily chosen. Miss Hetty made an inarticulate sound, and touched up her brown mare, but all she said was, “Who is Ebenezer?”
“Ebenezer is Mrs. Manser’s cat,” said Polly, glad to be on safe ground, “and he knows a great deal, Father Manser says. He is nearly as old as I am, and he has caught forty-three rats to Uncle Blodgett’s certain sure knowledge, and nobody knows how many more. He has eaten them, too,” said Polly, gravely, “though I don’t see how he could ever in this world; do you?”
“They wouldn’t be to my taste,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly. “Who is Uncle Sam Blodgett? I mean, is he any relation of yours?”
“Oh, no, ma’am; he isn’t any relation of anybody,” said Polly. “His kith and kin have all died, he says, and he is a lonely old hulk—that’s what he told me he was,” she added, seeing a look which might be disapproval on Miss Hetty’s face. “He’s had adventures by land and sea and suffered far and near, and it’s a tame thing for him to saw and split now that his days are numbered.”
“Mercy on us!” ejaculated Miss Pomeroy. “Where did you ever get such a memory, child?”
“From—from my father, Mrs. Manser said,” faltered Polly. Here was a new cause of anxiety; evidently Eleanor’s memory had been quite different from hers. Polly looked steadily before her, and set her little mouth firmly. “Perhaps Arctura Green, that they’ve spoken of, can tell me about Eleanor’s memory,” she thought, suddenly; “maybe I can ask her about a good many things.”
Just then Daisy, the pretty brown mare, turned the curve at the foot of the long hill, and they were in the main street of Mapleton.