Arctura’s prediction came true, for the first sound Polly heard when she woke the next morning was a soft, steady patter on her window-pane; the trunk of the elm tree was wet and black as if it had been raining all night. Polly was reminded of that stormy afternoon not quite two weeks ago when she had sat close to Uncle Blodgett in the old shed at Manser Farm and heard him tell about his brave young nephew who had gone to the war and died for his country. “I wonder if they miss me?” thought the little girl at Pomeroy Oaks. “Maybe they do, because they used to say I made all the noise there was in the house. It seems a pretty long time till next winter, but if I get real well acquainted with Miss Pomeroy so I can tell her that my loving the Manser Farm folks won’t make me stop wanting to be like Eleanor, maybe she’ll let me go to see them by Thanksgiving. I wonder how my rag dollie likes it up in the garret in that tight box where Mrs. Manser put her. I expect she’s lonesome, poor dolly! And Ebenezer--I don’t persume anybody gets down on the floor to play with him, because they’ve all got rheumatism except Mrs. Manser, and she has pains in her head.” There was no trip to the village for Miss Pomeroy and Polly that morning. Toward noon Hiram drove off in the light wagon, holding a large umbrella over his head, and returned well splashed with mud an hour or so later. Polly spent part of the morning in the library with Miss Pomeroy, darning some stockings and a rent in the old red frock. Miss Pomeroy had a book in her hands, but almost every time the little girl looked up from her work she found the keen, gray eyes fixed on her face, and it made her uneasy. She thought there must be something unsatisfactory about her appearance, for her kind friend looked grave and troubled. Polly decided to speak. “My hair isn’t quite as flat as it is sometimes,” she ventured, after a long silence. “Mrs. Manser used to say that she believed Satan got into it when the weather was damp, and perhaps he does. I suppose the nicest folks all have straight hair, don’t they, Miss Pomeroy?” The only answer was a smile and a stroke of the brown curls, and Polly was instantly confirmed in her opinion, while Miss Hetty’s mind was far away. “But, perhaps, as I get more and more like Eleanor, my hair will change just as my cheeks are changing,” she thought, hopefully. “And I think I’m stretching out a little bit, too, practicing the way Ebenezer did.” The library was a delightful room, but the hour with Arctura before the kitchen fire in the afternoon had a different sort of charm for Polly.