Miss Polly

           MissPollyHarringtonenteredherkitchenalittlehurriedlythisJunemorning. MissPollydidnotusuallymakehurriedmovements; shespeciallypridedherselfonherreposeofmanner. Butto-dayshewashurrying—actuallyhurrying. 

           Nancy,washingdishesatthesink,lookedupinsurprise. NancyhadbeenworkinginMissPolly’skitchenonlytwomonths,butalreadysheknewthathermistressdidnotusuallyhurry. 

           "Nancy!" 

           "Yes,ma’am."Nancyansweredcheerfully,butshestillcontinuedwipingthepitcherinherhand. 

           "Nancy,"—MissPolly’svoicewasverysternnow—"whenI’mtalkingtoyou,IwishyoutostopyourworkandlistentowhatIhavetosay." 

           Nancyflushedmiserably. Shesetthepitcherdownatonce,withtheclothstillaboutit,therebynearlytippingitover—whichdidnotaddtohercomposure. 

           "Yes,ma’am; Iwill,ma’am,"shestammered,rightingthepitcher,andturninghastily. "Iwasonlykeepin’onwithmywork‘causeyouspeciallytoldmethismornin’terhurrywithmydishes,yeknow." 

           Hermistressfrowned. 

           "Thatwilldo,Nancy. Ididnotaskforexplanations. Iaskedforyourattention."