Phronsie lifted her eyes and fixed them on the long, white face, and suddenly raising herself on her tiptoes, she put up her lips.

“Look at Phron,” cried Joel in the midst of the group, “actually kissing Mrs. Chatterton!” and everybody turned and stared.

Cousin Eunice dropped her veil with a quick hand, and moved off with a stately step, but not in time to lose young Bayley’s drawl: 

“’Pon me word—­it’s the most extraordinary thing.  Phronsie, come here, and tell us what ’twas like.”  But Phronsie stood quite still as if she had not heard.

“Yes, I hope you’ll have a nice time,” Pickering Dodge was saying for the dozenth time, with eyes for no one but Polly, “now don’t stay away for a year.”

Polly with her heart full of the boys, who were hanging on either side, answered at random.

“Oh, Ben!  I can’t go,” she was exclaiming, and she hid her head on his shoulder, so Pickering turned off.

But Joel set his teeth together.  “You must,” he said, for Ben was beyond speech with the effort to control himself.

“I can’t,” said poor Polly, “leave you, Ben, and the boys.”

And then Mrs. Whitney came up just as Polly was near breaking down.

“My dear child,” she said, taking Polly’s hands, “you know it is right for you to go.”

“Yes, I know,” said Polly, fighting her tears.

“Then, Polly, be brave, dear, and don’t begrudge me my three new boys,” she added playfully.  “Just think how happy I’m to be, with six such splendid fellows to call my own.”

Polly smiled through her tears.

“And one thing more,” said Mrs. Whitney in a low voice, “when you feel badly,” looking steadily at Polly and the three boys, “remember what Dr. Fisher said; that if your mother didn’t stop working, and rest, she would break down.”

“I’ll remember,” said Ben hoarsely.

“So will I,” said David.

“And I will,” said Joel, looking everywhere but into Polly’s eyes.

“Well, I hope, Miss Polly,” said young Mr. Bayley, sauntering up, “that you’ll have an uncommonly nice time, I do indeed.  I may run across in September; if I do, we shall probably meet.”

“Miss Mary Pepper?” suddenly asked a man with a huge basket of flowers, and pausing in front of her.

Young Mr. Bayley smiled indulgently as he could not help reading the card thrust into the flowers.  “She will receive my flowers at intervals all the way over, if the steward doesn’t fail me,” he reflected with satisfaction, “while this boy’s will fade in an hour.”

“Miss Mary Pepper?” the florist’s messenger repeated, extending the basket to Polly.

“It’s for you, Miss Polly,” said young Mr. Bayley.  “Let me relieve you,” taking the basket.

“Oh! are they for me?” cried Polly.

“I believe you are Miss Mary Pepper,” said young Bayley.  “Pretty, aren’t they?” fingering the roses, and glad to think that there were orchids among the flowers to which his card was attached, and just placed under the steward’s care.