"Don't you mind her, Alan," said Mrs. Adams. "You can come, if you want to, and I'll protect you myself." "If you come, though," added Polly, determined to have the last word, "you'll have to bring some stockings to darn. We shan't let in any lazy people." CHAPTER IV. MISS BEAN COMES TO LUNCH. "Oh, dear me, Jean!" sighed Polly. "I do believe there's Miss Deborah Bean coming down the street." "What of her?" inquired Jean indifferently. "Why, if 'tis, she's coming here to lunch. She says all the hateful things she can think of; and you don't know how queer she is. I can't help laughing at her; and that makes mamma cross, for she wants me to be polite to her, because she's old as Methuselah and poor as Job's turkey." "I didn't suppose your mother was ever cross," said Jean. "Oh, she isn't cross, exactly; but sometimes she doesn't like things as well as others." "Most people don't," remarked Jean sagely. Miss Bean's present home was in the poorhouse, from which place of retreat she made expeditions into the town, at intervals, to visit her old acquaintances, and among them was Mrs. Adams, for whose mother she had sewed, during her younger, stronger days. On these great occasions, she was wont to cast aside the plain gown which she ordinarily wore, and bring out to the light of day the one that had for years served as her best when she went into the institution. Accordingly, it was a strange figure that turned in at the doctor's gate, and came to a halt before the two girls who were sitting on the grass under one of the tall elms on the lawn. Her gown was of some black woollen stuff, figured with green, and its short, full skirt fell in voluminous folds over her large hoops. A white muslin cape covered her shoulders; and her head was adorned with a yellow straw shaker bonnet, in the depths of which her wrinkled face, with its pointed chin and bright eyes, looked like the face of some mammoth specimen of the cat tribe, an effect that was increased by her high, shrill voice. Black lace mitts covered her hands; and she carried, point upward, a venerable brown umbrella, loosely rolled up, and held in place with two rubber bands. "Is your ma at home?" she asked Polly abruptly. "She's in the house," answered Polly, rising with some reluctance. "I'll go and call her. You stay here, Jean." "Jean who?" inquired Miss Bean, bringing her spectacles to bear on Jean's blooming face. "Jean Dwight, ma'am," said Jean demurely, in spite of a strong desire to laugh. "Bill Dwight's daughter?" Jean nodded, while her color rose at the rough abbreviation of her father's name.