“Yes’m,” said Polly, “and then Uncle Sam Blodgett gave me a knife that will be an extra fine article if I should get the broken blade fixed, and some slippery elm, and Aunty Peebles gave me a dear little pincushion, and Miss Pomeroy bought me a bag of gum-drops and chocolates--but those are gone all but one, for Miss Arctura likes them; she has a sweet tooth, though she doesn’t often indulge it, she says--and then Miss Pomeroy bought me these beautiful shoes that I have on,” she finished, breathlessly, sticking out one small foot for inspection. “You see it’s been presents and presents,” said Polly, beaming upon Mrs. Talcott and then turning to Miss Hetty with a face aglow with gratitude. “So it seems, my dear,” said the visitor, and when Polly mentioned her plan in regard to Aunty Peebles, Mrs. Talcott said cordially, “Why not send her part of these chocolates, Mary?” “I hoped and hoped you’d say for me to do that,” said Polly, earnestly. “If you please, Miss Pomeroy, I would like to send them the middle of next week, for it always seems long then to Aunty Peebles from Sunday to Sunday. She values her privileges very much,” said Polly. “You shall send them next Wednesday if all goes well,” said Miss Pomeroy, “and perhaps you’d like to write a letter to go with them. We’ll see about it. And now you may run off, Mary, and read or do anything you like.” Polly said good-by, and then as she reached the doorway she turned and made a courtesy to the guest. “Will you please pay my respects to your family,” said Polly, and then she departed, hugging her precious box. “I believe I was just about like Eleanor that time,” she said, as she put her new treasure away in the top bureau drawer, “for they both looked as pleased as could be. Now I’m going to the library to pick out a book, and take it out on the south porch. Seems as if probably I could read better out-doors.” Miss Pomeroy and her visitor were in the parlor and the door was closed, so Polly had no fear of disturbing them. She had never owned any books except the Bible and her school reader, but she had heard a great deal about stories from her friends at Manser Farm. Uncle Sam Blodgett had a battered Shakespeare, from which he had recited extracts, and Polly had looked upon the book with awe. “I guess I’d better begin with a small book,” she said, as she stood for a moment undecided in the centre of the library, looking about at the bewildering display of literature. “Of course, small books are meant for boys and girls, and I’ll take one from that shelf under the window; probably those are the ones Eddy reads. Miss Pomeroy said yesterday I could choose anything I liked. Here’s one that won’t take very long,” said Polly, kneeling to slip a small, leather-covered volume from its place.