“She took care of me for seven years,” said Polly, with a spasm of loyalty, forgetting how little of the care had really come on Mrs. Manser’s shoulders, “and I do try to love her.”
“Love don’t always come by trying,” said Hiram, tranquilly, “but I suppose it’s no harm to give it a fair chance. And as for those old folks of yours, you shall see ’em next Sunday, if I have to tole Mr. Manser down behind the sheds and keep him there.”
Then Hiram puckered his lips and softly whistled “Duke Street” all the rest of the way to Pomeroy Oaks, while Polly sat beside him, much cheered and comforted.
Dinner was an exciting meal to the little girl. It was the first time, as she told Arctura afterward, that Polly had even seen a minister eat. This minister not only ate with great heartiness, but he talked a good deal and frequently smiled across the table at her, and he had a jolly laugh. Polly was glad of that for more than one reason. Arctura had covered the scratch on her nose with a long, broad strip of black court-plaster, and this decoration made her naturally prominent feature more noticeable than ever. She carried her head very high, and bore the dishes in and out with a stately tread, but her eyes twinkled so when she looked at Polly that the little girl had much ado to keep a straight face.
When the dessert came, Polly held her breath while the minister ate his first mouthful of a yellow cake; he had chosen it instead of one of Arctura’s “snowflakes.” Miss Pomeroy had tasted one the day before and pronounced it delicious. The minister ate every crumb, and when the plate was passed to him a second time, he laughed boyishly.
“These are almost too good,” he said. “I should like to compliment the cook.”
Miss Pomeroy smiled at Polly.
“My little guest made them,” said she.
“Dear me,” said the minister, heartily. “I shall have to tell my sisters about this when I go home. One of them must be just about Mary’s age; she is eight years old.”
“Oh, but I’m going on eleven,” said Polly, eagerly, “only I’m small for my age, sir.”