When Saturday came, Polly started as usual for a visit to Becky and Bess, but could n't resist stopping at the Shaws' to leave a little parcel for Fan, though it was calling time. As she stepped in, meaning to run up for a word if Fanny should chance to be alone, two hats on the hall table arrested her.
“Only Mr. Sydney and Master Tom. Won't you stop a bit, Miss Polly?”
“Not this morning, I'm rather in a hurry.” And away went Polly as if a dozen eager pupils were clamoring for her presence. But as the door shut behind her she felt so left out in the cold, that her eyes filled, and when Nep, Tom's great Newfoundland, came blundering after her, she stopped and hugged his shaggy head, saying softly, as she looked into the brown, benevolent eyes, full of almost human sympathy: “Now, go back, old dear, you must n't follow me. Oh, Nep, it's so hard to put love away when you want it very much and it is n't right to take it.” A foolish little speech to make to a dog, but you see Polly was only a tender-hearted girl, trying to do her duty.
“Since he is safe with Fanny, I may venture to walk where I like. It 's such a lovely day, all the babies will be out, and it always does me good to see them,” thought Polly, turning into the wide, sunny street, where West End-dom promenaded at that hour.
The babies were out in full force, looking as gay and delicate and sweet as the snow-drops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks whence the snow had melted. But somehow the babies did n't do Polly the good she expected, though they smiled at her from their carriages, and kissed their chubby hands as she passed them, for Polly had the sort of face that babies love. One tiny creature in blue plush was casting despairing glances after a very small lord of creation who was walking away with a toddling belle in white, while a second young gentleman in gorgeous purple gaiters was endeavoring to console the deserted damsel.
“Take hold of Master Charley's hand, Miss Mamie, and walk pretty, like Willy and Flossy,” said the maid.
“No, no, I want to do wid Willy, and he won't let me. Do'way, Tarley, I don't lite you,” cried little Blue-bonnet, casting down her ermine muff and sobbing in a microscopic handkerchief, the thread-lace edging on which could n't mitigate her woe, as it might have done that of an older sufferer.