“He likes to run the machine,” said Aunty Peebles to Polly. “Seems as if he thought he’d got his foot in the stirrups and was riding, bold and free.” There were many such times for Father Manser during this dressmaking season, and he enjoyed them, though he knew how much he would miss Polly when she had gone. In spite of hours spent in the house instead of out in the sweet spring weather, in spite of unwonted tasks, and many serious rebukes from Mrs. Manser, the days flew by instead of dragging slowly along as little Polly wished they would. “Aunty” Peebles, who had never had a real niece; “Grandma” Manser, who had no grandchildren; even poor Mrs. Ramsdell, with her sharp tongue, who had “known all sorts of trials and seen better days,”--all were friends to Polly, the only friends she had in the world beside Mrs. Manser, who had brought her up, with much grumbling, to be sure; kind Father Manser, who sometimes gave her a stick of candy in the dark; and Uncle Sam Blodgett, with whom she had such exciting talks, the hero of the adventure, the tale of which was so suddenly interrupted. Polly’s heart was sore at the thought of leaving them all; she even felt sorry that she must say good-bye to poor Bob Rust, the grown man with a boy’s mind, who could not be depended on to do the simplest errand. “He’s scatter-witted, I know,” said Polly to herself, “but I shall miss seeing Bob, because I’m used to him.” Thursday morning came all too soon. Miss Pomeroy was to come for Polly about ten o’clock. At half-past nine Polly, with anxiety written all over her rosy face, was twirling slowly around in the middle of the kitchen, while Mrs. Manser regarded her forlornly from her position in the doorway, with a hand pressed against her forehead. “I suppose you’ll have to do as you are,” she said at last, with a heavy sigh. “My head aches so, I’m fit for nothing, or I’d see what more I could do with that hair of yours. Is that the very flattest you can get it, Mary? I hope you’re going to remember to answer Miss Pomeroy when she says ‘Mary’ better than you do me, child. It’s your rightful name, and, of course Polly’s no kind of a name for a girl to be adopted by. Did you say you’d done the very best you could with your hair?” “Yes’m,” said Polly, twisting her hands together, locking and unlocking her fingers in evident excitement. “I wet it sopping wet, and then I patted it all down hard; but it doesn’t stay down very well, I’m afraid.” Polly was right; in spots her hair was still damp and sleek on her little head, but around these satisfactory spots her short curls rose and danced defiance to brush and water. “Oh, Ebenezer, I wish I had fur like yours instead of hair!” cried Polly, but Ebenezer only blinked at her, and retired hastily behind the stove as if he feared she might attempt an exchange of head-covering.