"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," she explained courteously. "Their brother is ill. Won't you come in, sir?" "Just for a little while, perhaps," said Mr. Baxter, following her into the parlor. "If they're away, who's keeping house?" "We are, Molly Hapgood and I," answered Polly, a little surprised at the question. "A good girl?" Polly looked up in astonishment, thinking that he had taken that way of praising her. On the contrary, she discovered that this was intended as a question. "What was it you said," she asked. "Have you a good girl?" "We haven't any," replied Polly meekly; "ours went away this morning." "Just like them! They're the greatest plague in the world!" said Mr. Baxter explosively, and so rapidly that his words appeared to be tumbling over each other, in their haste to escape from his lips. "They haven't any honor; mine went off yesterday, and I haven't any to-day. She was a splendid girl with a great trunk full of real nice clothes, and such refined tastes, she always drank English breakfast tea. But she wouldn't stay, because I would not let her have all the soap she wanted. Extravagant things!" Mr. Baxter suddenly reined in his tongue; then added abruptly, "Who's housekeeper generally, your mother or your aunt?" "Mamma is," replied Polly. "Oh!" Mr. Baxter's tone was rather annoyed. There was a prolonged pause, while Polly watched the clock and reflected that it was time to put on the potatoes. "Are your children well?" inquired Molly politely, feeling that it was her duty to say something. "Quite well, only the baby has the croup almost every night. They have a great many colds, but I tell them that it's good enough for them, and perhaps it may teach them to be a little more careful," answered their fond parent sympathetically. "I had a cold last winter," remarked Alan, launching himself into the conversation with this bit of personal reminiscence. "Oh," said Mr. Baxter again.