house."

"All right; what shall I do first?" And Alan pulled off his cuffs
and folded back the bottoms of his sleeves. "Hullo! who's this
coming?" he exclaimed, as a figure turned in at the gate.

"Why, it's Mr. Solomon Baxter," said Polly, in some surprise. "How
queer! He never comes here." "Perhaps he's after your father,"
suggested Molly, in an undertone.

"He must be," answered Polly, as she rose to meet him; "but I
should think he would know that papa's at his office, not here."
Mr. Baxter was a widower of fifty, whose wife had recently died,
leaving him with six children under ten years old. Whatever may
have been the motives leading to the match, surely Mrs. Baxter
could never have married her husband either for his personal
beauty or for his repose of manner; for Mr. Baxter's bald head was
covered with a smooth yellow wig, and his figure presented every
appearance of having its joints so tightly wired together that
they could not play freely in their places, while it was a matter
of common report that his nervous, excitable manner had worried
his wife until she was glad to be at rest.

"How do you do? Is your aunt at home?" he answered Polly's
greeting.

This was unexpected, but Polly reflected that they might be on
some committee together.

"I am sorry, but she and mamma were sent for to go to New York,"