Part 1 (2/2)

Polly squeezed it sympathetically, and told him how sorry she was for his accident.

Mr. Bean gazed at her with tender, wistful eyes.

”My little girl was 'most as big as you,” he mused. ”Not quite; she wasn't but six when she--went. But you look consider'ble like her--wish't I had a picture o' Susie! I wish't I had!” He drew his breath hard.

Polly patted the wrinkled hand, not knowing what to say.

”But I've got a picture here you'll like,” the little man brightened.

”Yer'll like it first-rate.”

His hand moved gropingly underneath the bed covers, and finally brought out the little box that Polly instantly recognized.

”Oh, thank you! How pretty it is!” She received it with a radiant smile.

Mr. Bean's face grew suddenly troubled.

”Yer mustn't blame Jane too much,” he began pleadingly. ”I guess she kind o' da.s.sent give it to yer, so long afterwards. It's locked,”--as Polly pulled at the cover,--”and there ain't no key,” he mourned. ”I do' know what Jane's done with it. Yer'll have to git another,--there wa'n't no other way.” His voice was plaintive.

”That's all right,” Polly rea.s.sured him.

The pleasure of once more holding the little box in her hand was enough for the moment.

”I see it in her bureau drawer the day we was first married,” he went on reminiscently, ”an' she opened it and showed me what was in it.

Ther' 's a picture of yer mother--”

”Oh!” Polly interrupted excitedly, ”of mamma?”

”Yis, so she said. Looks like you, too,--same kind o' eyes. It was goin' to be for your birthday--that's what she had it took for, Jane said.”

Polly had been breathlessly following his words, and now broke out in sudden reproach:--

”Oh! why didn't Aunt Jane let me have it! How could she keep it, when I wanted a picture of mamma so!”

The reply did not come at once. A shadow of pain pa.s.sed over the man's face, leaving it more drawn and pallid.

”It's too bad!” he lamented weakly. ”I tol' Jane so then; but she thought 'twould kind o' upset yer, likely, and so--” His voice faltered. He began again bravely. ”You mustn't blame Jane too much, my dear! Jane's got some good streaks, real good streaks.”

Polly looked up from the little box. Her eyes were wet, but she smiled cheerfully into the anxious face.

”I ought not to blame her, now she's sent it,” she said sweetly; ”and I thank you ever so much for bringing it.”

A hint of a smile puckered the thin lips.

”Guess if I'd waited f'r her to send it,” he murmured, ”'t 'ud been the mornin' Gabriel come! But Jane's got her good streaks,” he apologized musingly.

Then he lay silent for a moment, feeling after courage to go on.

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