She stirred the porridge vigorously,
while her cheeks burned.
"Yes, they were," Mrs. Motherwell said quietly.
Pearl set the porridge on the back of the stove and ran
out to where the poppies nodded gaily. Never before had
they seemed so beautiful. Mrs. Motherwell watched her
through the window bending over them. Something about
the poppies appealed to her now. She had once wanted Tom
to cut them down, and she thought of it now.
She tapped on the window. Pearl looked up, startled.
"Bring in some," she called.
When the work was done for the morning, Mrs. Motherwell
went up the narrow stair way to the little room over the
kitchen to gather together Polly's things.
She sat on Polly's little straw bed and looked at the
dismal little room. Pearl had done what she could to
brighten it. The old bags and baskets had been neatly
piled in one corner, and quilts had been spread over them
to hide their ugliness from view. The wind blew gently
in the window that the hail had broken. The floor had
been scrubbed clean and white--the window, what was left
of it--was shining.
She was reminded of Polly everywhere she looked. The mat
under her feet was one that Polly had braided. A corduroy
blouse hung at the foot of the bed. She remembered now
that Polly had worn it the day she came.
In a little yellow tin box she found Polly's letters--
the letters that had given her such extravagant joy. She
could see her yet, how eagerly she would seize them and
rush up to this little room with them, transfigured.
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