Polly Prentiss is an orphan who lives with a distant relative, Mrs. Manser, the mistress of Manser farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden lady of middle age, has, ever since the death of her favorite niece, been on the lookout for a little girl whom she might adopt. She is attracted by Polly’s appearance and quaint manners, and finally decides to take her home with her and keep her for a month to see if the plan would be agreeable to both. If Polly, whose real name is Mary, should fulfill her expectations she would then wish to adopt her. Polly ran out of the room, and Mrs. Manser hurried through the house to open the front door; she stepped out to the wagon to greet Miss Pomeroy, and stood with the breeze fluttering her scanty front locks till Polly reappeared. “I don’t know as she’ll be what you want, at all,” said Mrs. Manser, blinking up at the grave, kind face above her, for the sun shone in her eyes. “I’ll leave you to find out what sort of a child she is, as I told you the other day, for nobody can tell what will suit anybody else. I’ve tried to bring her up well, but, of course, she hasn’t had advantages, though she’s pretty bright in school, her teacher says.” “I’m glad it’s vacation time,” said Miss Pomeroy, cheerily. “Polly and I will have so much better chance to get acquainted with each other, and become friends whether she stays with me always or not. Is she pleased to go, Mrs. Manser?” “I guess she realizes what a great chance ’tis for her, and how good you are,” said Mrs. Manser, avoiding the direct gaze of the keen gray eyes. She began to wish she had left unsaid a few things, with which she had charged Polly’s mind. “Of course, ’tisn’t as if she had the sense of a grown person,” she added, somewhat vaguely. “I don’t know about that,” laughed Miss Pomeroy; “it seems to me that little people have a wonderful amount of sense sometimes.” “Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Manser, dubiously, “perhaps they have.” Meanwhile Polly had run out to the shed, where the old people were waiting to say good-by to her. They had been marshaled into a line by Uncle Sam Blodgett, so that Polly might be hugged and kissed by each in turn, without loss of time; but the line wavered and broke as the little figure they all loved to see came flying in at the door. Poor Bob Rust, from his humble stand at the rear, gave a strange, sorrowful cry and turned to go out of the shed. “Here,” called Polly, peremptorily, “I’ll kiss you first of all, on your forehead, because I don’t like all your whiskers, you know,” and the man stooped for his good-by, and then ran, stumbling, out of the shed and away to the cow pasture. “I said good-by to the cows and all the hens and the pigs when I first got up,” said Polly, turning to her friends; “and I gave Prince some oats and said good-by to him right after breakfast. Now, Uncle Blodgett, it’s your turn.” The old man swung her quickly up into his arms and gave her a hearty kiss.