“Let me go,” cried Polly wildly, rushing away from the detaining hand to the door, “I don’t want those things on.  Let me go, Phronsie!”

“You’ll be cold,” said Phronsie.  With all her care, her little white lips were quivering as she held out the things.  “Please, Polly,” she said piteously.

“The child is right; put them on,” commanded Mrs. Pepper, for one instant taking her thought from her boy; and Polly obeyed, and was gone.

In the parsonage “best room” sat Mrs. Whitney.  Her rocking-chair was none of the easiest, being a hair-cloth affair, its cushion very much elevated in the world just where it should have been depressed, so that one was in constant danger of slipping off its surface; moreover, the arms and back of the chair were covered with indescribable arrangements made and presented by loving parishioners and demanding unceasing attention from the occupant.  But the chair was drawn up in the sunshine pouring into the window, and Mrs. Whitney’s thoughts were sunny, too; for she smiled now and then as she drew her needle busily in and out through the bright wools.

“How restful it all is here, and so quaint and simple.”  She glanced up now to the high-backed mantel with its wealth of daguerreotypes, and surprising collection of dried leaves in tall china vases; and over the walls, adorned with pine-cone framed pictures, to the center table loaded with “Annuals,” and one or two volumes of English poetry, and then her gaze took in the little paths the winter sunshine was making for itself along the red and green ingrain carpet.  “I am so glad father thought to bring us all.  Dear father, it is making a new man of him, this winter frolic.  Why”—­

She was looking out of the window now, and her hands fell to her lap as Polly Pepper came running breathlessly down the village street, her hood untied, and the coat grasped with one hand and held together across her breast.  But it was the face that terrified Mrs. Whitney, and hurrying out of her chair, she ran out to the veranda as the girl rushed through the gateway.

“Polly, child,” cried Mrs. Whitney, seizing her with loving arms and drawing her on the steps—­“oh! what is it, dear?”

Polly’s lips moved, but no words came.

“Oh!” at last, “don’t hate us for—­bringing you to the—­little—­brown house.  Why did we come!” And convulsively she threw her young arms around the kind neck.  “Oh, Auntie!  Dicky is hurt—­but we don’t know how much—­his legs, Joel says, but it may not be as bad as we think; dear Auntie.”

Mrs. Whitney trembled so that she could scarcely stand.  Around them streamed the same winter sunshine that had been so bright a moment since.  How long ago it seemed.  And out of gathering clouds in her heart she was saying, “Polly dear, God is good.  We will trust him.”  She did not know her own voice, nor realize when Polly led her mercifully within, as a farmer’s wagon came slowly down