Dotty Dimple at Her Grandmothers | Page 7

to go with her; she wished her to ask for the ducks' eggs. When they reached the acorn tree Dotty did not stop; she would never have thought of playing "King and Queen" with Prudy; she was afraid of her sister's honest blue eyes.
I am not quite sure Mrs. Gray would have given the eggs to Dotty, though Mrs. Parlin promised her several times the amount of hens' eggs in return. Mrs. Gray did not think Dotty was "a very sociable child;" and then so many people were asking for eggs! But Mrs. Gray could not say "No" to Prudy; she gave her thirteen eggs, with a hearty kiss.
"Now whose will the ducklings be?" asked Dotty on the way home.
"Yours and mine," replied Prudy; "half and half. Six for each, and an odd one over."
"Then," said Dotty, "we'll give that 'odd one over' to Katie."
"But they may not all hatch, Dotty."
"O, dear! why not? Then we can't tell how many we shall have. Perhaps there will be two or three odd ones over; and then what shall we do, Prudy?"
Prudy laughed at the idea of "two or three odd ones." The eggs were put in a barrel under the white hen; and now began a trial of patience. It seemed to all the children that time stood still while they waited. Would the four weeks never be gone?
One day Dottie stood with Katie by the back-door blowing bubbles. The blue sky, the white fences, the green trees, and even the people who passed in the street, made little pictures of themselves on the bubbles. It was very beautiful. Dotty blew with such force that her cheeks were puffed as round as rubber balls. Katie looked on in great delight.
"See," she cried, "see the trees a-yidin' on that bubbil!"
Dotty dropped the pipe and kissed her.
"Dear me," said she, the next minute, "there's Miss Polly coming!"
Katie looked along the path, and saw a forlorn woman tightly wrapped in a brown shawl, carrying a basket on her arm, and looking sadly down at her own calf-skin shoes, which squeaked dismally as she walked.
"Is um the Polly?" whispered Katie; "is um so tired?"
"No, she isn't tired," said Dotty; "but she feels dreadfully all the whole time; I don't know what it's about, though."
By this time the new-comer stood on the threshold, sighing.
"How do you do, you pretty creeturs?" said she, with a dreary smile.
"Yes, 'um," replied Katie; "is you the Polly, and does you feel drefful?"
The sad woman kissed the little girls,--for she was fond of children,--sighed more heavily than ever, asked if their grandmother was at home, and passed through the kitchen on her way to the parlor.
Mrs. Parlin sat knitting on the sofa, Mrs. Clifford was sewing, and Miss Louise crocheting. They all looked up and greeted the visitor politely, but it seemed as if a dark cloud had entered the room. Miss Polly seated herself in a rocking-chair, and began to take off her bonnet, sighing as she untied the strings, and sighing again as she took the three pins out of her shawl.
"I hope you are well this fine weather," said Mrs. Parlin, cheerily.
"As well as ever I expect to be," replied Miss Polly, in a resigned tone.
Then she opened the lids of her basket with a dismal creak, and took out her knitting, which was as gray as a November sky. Afterwards she slowly pinned a corn-cob to the right side of her belt, and began to knit. At the end of every needle she drew a deep breath, and felt the stocking carefully to make sure there were no "nubs" in it. She talked about the "severe drowth" and some painful cases of sickness, after which she took out her snuff-box, and then the three ladies saw that she had something particular to say.
"Where is your little boy, Maria?"
She always called Mrs. Clifford Maria, for she had known her from a baby.
"Horace is at Augusta; I left him there the other day."
"Yes," said Polly, settling her mournful black cap, "so I heard! I was very, very sorry," and she shook her head dolefully, as if it had been a bell and she were tolling it--"very, very sorry!"
Mrs. Clifford could not but wonder why.
"It is a dreadful thing to happen in a family! I'm sure, Maria, I never heard that stealing was natural to either side of the house!"
"Stealing!" echoed Mrs. Clifford.
"What in this world can you mean, Polly Whiting?" said Aunt Louise, laughing nervously; for she was a very lively young lady, and laughed a great deal. Miss Whiting thought this was no time for jokes. Her mouth twitched downward as if there were strings at the corners. Mrs. Clifford had turned very pale.
"Poll," said she, "do speak, and tell me what you have heard? It is all