"Good-by," sang out Joel, whom the stage driver had taken up beside him.
"Here we are, off for the little brown house. G'lang!"




VII

OLD TIMES AGAIN


Don't let me look--oh! don't let me look," cried Polly in the old gig,
and twisting around, she hid her face against the faded green cloth side.
"I ought not to see the little brown house before Mamsie and the others
do."

"I'll turn down the lane," said the little doctor, "so"; and suiting the
action to the word, Polly could feel that they were winding down the
narrow little road over toward Grandma Bascom's. She could almost smell
the violets and anemones under the carpet of snow, and could scarcely
restrain herself from jumping out for a riotous run.

"Don't go too far away," she cried in sudden alarm. "We must be there by
the time the stage does." And she applied her eye to the little circular
glass in the back of the gig. "Will it never come--oh! here it is, here
it is, dear Dr. Fisher." And with a quick flourish around of the old
horse, they were soon before the little brown house, and helping out the
inmates of the stage, who with more speed than grace were hurrying over
the steps.