"Oh, Polly!" cried Joel, who was prancing as of old over the kitchen
floor, "don't you remember that night when you said you wished you had
two hundred candles, and you'd light them all at once?"

"I said a good many silly things in those days," said Polly
meditatively, and smoothing Phronsie's yellow hair that was lying across
her lap.

"Some silly ones, and a good many wise ones," observed Mother Pepper,
over in her little old rocker in the west window, where she used to sit
sewing up coats and sacks for the village storekeeper. "You kept us
together many a time, Polly, when nothing else could."

"Oh! no, I didn't, Mamsie," protested Polly, guilty of contradicting,
"you and Bessie did. I just washed dishes, and swept up, and"--

"Baked and brewed, and fussed and stewed," finished Joel, afraid of
being too sentimental.

"Polly was just lovely in those days," said Davie, coming across the
room to lay a cool cheek against her rosy one. "I liked the rainy days
best when we all could stay in the house, and hear her sing and tell
stories while she was working."

"She was cross sometimes," cried Joel, determined not to let
reminiscences become too comfortable; "she used to scold me just
awfully, I know."

Polly broke into a merry laugh; yet she exclaimed, "You poor Joey, I
suppose I was dreadful!"