“It’s there in the back of the wagon,” said Miss Pomeroy; “a big black bag.” “If you please, I can carry it, Miss Arctura,” said Polly, stepping forward to take the bag. “I’m real strong.” “I want to know,” said Arctura, placidly. “Well, considering how many times as big as you are I am, supposing you let me lug it upstairs for you just this once. I shouldn’t know I was hefting more’n a feather’s weight,” and she swung the bag jauntily as she marched into the house after Miss Pomeroy, gently pushing the little girl before her. Hiram stood looking into the house for a moment. His mouth had fallen open, as was its wont in times of meditation. Hiram had what his sister frankly called a “draughty countenance,” with a large-nostriled nose, big, prominent ears, and bulging eyes, but the same spirit of good-nature that illumined Arctura’s face shone from her brother’s. “She’s a neat little piece,” remarked Hiram to Daisy, as he headed her for the barn; “a neat little piece, if ever I saw one, but she looks a mite scared, seems’s if. This is a kind of a quiet place for a young one to be set down, no mistake, and there ain’t any passing to speak of. Children like to see things a-going, even if they’re a-going by, seems’s if. She gave me a real pretty smile, say what you’ve a mind to,” he insisted, as if Daisy had expressed violent remonstrance. The side porch led into a small, square hall; opposite the porch door was one which Arctura opened, and Polly saw that it was at the foot of a flight of stairs. Arctura and the black enamel cloth bag vanished from sight as the door closed. In the hall stood a hat-tree with curved mahogany branches, tipped with shining brass. “Now, I hang my everyday coat and hat here,” said Miss Pomeroy, suiting the action to the word, “and you’d better do the same. What’s the matter, child?” she asked, at the sight of Polly’s face. “These--these are not my everyday hat and jacket, Miss Pomeroy, if you please,” said Polly. “My everyday jacket is a shawl, and my everyday hat is a sunbonnet sometimes, and sometimes it isn’t--it hasn’t been anything. These are my Sunday best, and they are used to lying in a drawer on account of the dust--though I don’t believe there’s one speck of dust here,” she added, politely. “Arctura would be pleased to hear that,” said Miss Pomeroy. “I think we may venture to leave the Sunday hat and coat here until after dinner. When you go upstairs, you will find a drawer in which you can put them, I’m sure.”