Though the dinner hour was not until six o'clock, Polly was up
betimes, and went rushing about the house and slamming doors, with
a profound disregard of Aunt Jane's morning nap.
By eleven o'clock the house was in festal array, and the most
delicate of lemon puddings was cooling on the ice. Nothing more
could be done for hours; but Polly resisted all her mother's
efforts to induce her to rest, and roamed excitedly up and down
the rooms, now and again pausing to flick a few grains of dust
from the mantel, or to rearrange one of the graceful bunches of
flowers that decorated the house.
"Now, Polly," said Aunt Jane, at length, with an encouraging trust
in human nature; "you'll be utterly tired out to-morrow, and you
know that always makes you cross. I really think you'd better go
and lie down, or else sit down quietly and read."
But Polly scorned the suggestion. She was longing for the hour to
come when she could retire to the kitchen. At length it came and,
leaving her new spring gown spread on the bed, to be hastily put
on at the last minute, she went running down the stairs. In the
hall she paused, horror-stricken, as she heard a familiar voice
from the next room, saying to her mother,--
"I always have heard say that his brother hadn't enough principle
to save even the little tail of his soul, but nobody ever thought
the worse of Solomon Baxter for all that.
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