And yet!

She and Mrs. Slater had been girls together and sat in school with arms entwined and wove romances of the future, rosy-hued and golden.  When they consulted the oracle of “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,” the buttons on her gray winsey dress had declared in favour of the “rich man.”  Then she had dreamed dreams of silks and satins and prancing steeds and liveried servants, and ease, and happiness—­dreams which God in His mercy had let her forget long, long ago.

When she had become the mistress of the big stone house, she had struggled hard against her husband’s penuriousness, defiantly sometimes, and sometimes tearfully.  But he had held her down with a heavy hand of unyielding determination.  At last she grew weary of struggling, and settled down in sullen submission, a hopeless heavy-eyed, spiritless women, and as time went by she became greedier for money than her husband.

“Good-morning,” Pearl said brightly.  “Are you Mr. Tom Motherwell?”

“That’s what!” Tom replied.  “Only you needn’t mind the handle.”

Pearl laughed.

“All right,” she said, “I want a little favor done.  Will you open the window upstairs for me?”

“Why?” Tom asked, staring at her.

“To let in good air.  It’s awful close up there, and I’m afraid I’ll get the fever or somethin’ bad.”

“Polly got it,” Tom said.  “Maybe that is why Polly got it.  She’s awful sick now.  Ma says she’ll like as not die.  But I don’t believe ma will let me open it.”

“Where is Polly?” Pearl asked eagerly.  She had forgotten her own worries.  “Who is Polly?  Did she live here?”

“She’s in the hospital now in Brandon,” Tom said in answer to her rapid questions.  “She planted them poppies out there, but she never seen the flowers on them.  Ma wanted me to cut them down, for Polly used to put off so much time with them, but I didn’t want to.  Ma was mad, too, you bet,” he said, with a reminiscent smile at his own foolhardiness.

Pearl was thinking—­she could see the poppies through the window, bright and glowing in the morning light.  They rocked lightly in the wind, and a shower of crimson petals fell.  Poor Polly! she hadn’t seen them.

“What’s Polly’s other name?” she asked quickly.

“Polly Bragg,” he answered.  “She was awful nice, Polly was, and jolly, too.  Ma thought she was lazy.  She used to cry a lot and wish she could go home; but my! she could sing fine.”

Pearl went on with her work with a preoccupied air.

“Tom, can you take a parcel for me to town to-day?”

“I am not goin’,” he said in surprise.  “Pa always goes if we need anything.  I haven’t been in town for a month.”

“Don’t you go to church?” Pearl asked in surprise.

“No, you bet I don’t, not now.  The preacher was sassy to pa and tried to get money.  Pa says he’ll never touch wood in his church again, and pa won’t give another cent either, and, mind you, last year we gave twenty-five dollars.”