When she turned around the brown eyes were shining to match the eager voice, and Arctura smiled with satisfaction.
“This occurred forty-five years ago,” she began, briskly. “I might as well break it to you that I’m all but fifty-five. I suppose you’ve met folks as old as that, haven’t you?”
“Why, everybody at Manser Farm is ever and ever so much older, except Mrs. Manser and Father Manser, and Bob Rust,” said Polly, earnestly. “They’re all traveling on toward their end, Uncle Blodgett says, and he doesn’t care how soon he gets his marching orders for the heavenly land, but I care,” and the brown curls danced, “for I just love Uncle Blodgett.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Arctura, heartily. “Well now, about the Square and me. You see, my mother—‘marm,’ we all called her—was a notable cook. I don’t approach her on pie crust nor muffins, and there was a sort of rye drop cake,” said Miss Green, lowering her voice, “that nobody but her could ever make. And she was a great one to invent cake receipts, and then invite folks in to take a dish of tea in the afternoon and test the new cake.
“The Square’s wife was a good deal younger than he—she’d only be seventy if she was alive to-day, while he was eighty-five when he died—and she’d often accept marm’s invitations, and come to our old house—’twas burned years ago—and spend the best part of an afternoon just as friendly as you please. Not that ’twas any great come down, either,” said Arctura, with proper pride, “for my marm was of excellent stock, and I’m the first woman in the family records to work for pay.
“But that’s nothing to do with the story. One morning when John and I were starting off for school—Hiram was only a baby—marm gave us each an errand to do on the way. I can remember I stood barefoot in the grass—what did you say?” as Polly made a sound.
“Nothing but ‘oh!’” said Polly, quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, Miss Arctura.”
“Never mind, I’m glad to have you take an interest,” said the story-teller. “I can remember standing there in the grass waiting for John, and saying over and over to myself, ‘Please, Mrs. Pomeroy, marm sends her compliments and would like to have—no, that isn’t right—please, Mrs. Pomeroy, marm sends her compliments and would be happy to have you take tea with her this afternoon.’
“Pretty soon John came running out, and we took hold of hands and started for school. John said marm had told him to get an ounce of camphor at the store, and he was wishing she’d said a pound instead of such a stingy little mite, and I had to set forth to him how much an ounce of camphor could do before he was anyways reconciled.
“We had nearly two miles to go to school, and that morning when we got to the fork in the woods I ran across lots to get there quicker, and John went on down to the store. It was way out at the corners, not where the Burcham block is now,” explained Arctura. “Folks expected the village would grow this way, but it went the other.