"Why, Polly Pepper," she cried, "what a pity that Clem didn't find you! She
went over to your house."
"Oh, I know, I know," panted Polly, with scarlet cheeks.
"Don't try to talk," said Mrs. Forsythe, "you are all out of breath. Come
in, Polly."
"Oh, I can't. I mean I would like to see Clem," mumbled Polly, with an
awful dread, now that she was on the point of finding her, of what she
should say. It was all she could do to keep from running down the piazza
steps and fleeing home as fast as she had come.
"Why, Clem isn't at home," said Mrs. Forsythe, in a puzzled way; "you know
I told you she had gone over to your house. She wanted you to go down-town
with her, to buy some materials to take over to Miss Mary's this afternoon
and begin something new for the fair."
"Oh!" said Polly, in a faint voice, and hanging to the piazza railing.
"You see, she was all tired out over that sofa-pillow. I told her it was
quite too ambitious a piece to do, and she was so discouraged I gave her
some more money, and advised her to get something fresh. She had almost
made up her mind to give up working for the fair altogether."
"Oh, dear me!" gasped Polly, quite overcome.
"Yes." Mrs. Forsythe leaned comfortably against the door-casing. It was
such a comfort to tell her worries to Polly Pepper. "Clem said all the
other girls were making such pretty things, and it was no use for her to
try.
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