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