“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.”
Kind wishes and good deeds--they make not poor They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door.
Going out for a walk on some March morning, we find the air soft and warm, the skies of a summer blue, the water rippling in every little runnel. We look about, half expecting to see a bluebird perched upon a fence post, a robin stepping among the stubble. The stems and branches which appeared dry and dead all the winter have now a fresh exhibition of life. We can almost see the sap creeping up through their vessels and distributing vigor where it goes.