The close of the interview was
unsatisfactory both to Douglas and the deacon.
"Dey kinder made me cold an' prickly all up an' down de back,"
Mandy said later, when she described their talk to Hasty. "Dat
'ere deacon don' know nuffin' 'bout gittin' 'roun' de parson."
She tossed her head with a feeling of superiority. She knew the
way. Make him forget himself with a laugh. Excite his sympathy
with some village underdog.
Chapter VII
MANDY had secretly enjoyed the commotion caused by the little
circus-rider being left in the parsonage, at first, because of
her inborn love of mischief, and later, because Polly had become
second in her heart only to the pastor. She went about her work,
crooning softly during the days of Polly's convalescence. The
deep, steady voice of the pastor reading aloud in the pretty
window overhead was company. She would often climb the stairs to
tell them some bit of village gossip, and leave them laughing at
a quaint comment about some inquisitive sister of the church, who
had happened to incur her displeasure.
As spring came on, Douglas carried Polly down to the sun-lit
garden beneath the window; and Mandy fluttered about arranging
the cushions with motherly solicitude.
More days slipped by, and Polly began to creep through the
little, soft-leaved trees at the back of the church, and to look
for the deep, blue, sweet-scented violets.
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