HE sunset was still casting a red glow over the earth, throwing the long shadows of the trees on the ground, and lighting up the cottage windows, as Polly Bright stood at the door of her cottage, watching for her mother’s return. Mrs. Bright was a hard-working woman, who, during the absence of her husband, a soldier in the Crimea, earned many an honest shilling as charwoman in the house of the Squire on the hill. She generally managed to let Polly have the advantage of attending the school in the morning. Though herself unable to read, she liked the idea of her[70] daughter being a scholar; and as plain-work was also taught in the school, she thought that what Polly acquired there might make her not only more learned, but more useful. But it was only for attendance in the morning that the charwoman’s child could be spared from her home. During her mother’s frequent absence, all the charge of the cottage, and care of the children, belonged of course to Polly Bright.
I cannot say that the little parlour could compare in neatness with that of Mrs. Wingfield. There was a chest of drawers in one of the corners, and on it was heaped a strange medley of things. Tea-pot and broken jug, old shawl and a baby’s rattle, nutmeg-scraper, bellows, saucepan and books, were piled in sad confusion. Nor would I have advised you to have attempted to open one of the drawers. They were sometimes too full to be opened at all, and stuck tight against every effort, as if aware that they were not fit to be seen. Polly was too fond of adorning[71] herself to care for adorning her cottage. She was not aware how far better it looks to be simple, neat, and clean, and dressed according to our station, than to be decked out with gaudy finery, and try to ape the appearance of those whom Providence has placed above us.
You will remember that we visited this cottage in the third chapter, and there is little change in the appearance of things there now. The damp on the floor occasioned by Johnny’s accident has dried up, and so have the tears of the little boy, who, seated upon a stool near his sister’s feet, is cramming his mouth with bread and butter, with an air of great content. But the thin sickly baby is still in his cradle, still uttering his feeble, unheeded wail, for the poor little creature is teething hard, and has no other way of expressing his pain. Polly never notices his heated lips and swelled gums; she is more occupied with herself this evening than usual, for Mrs. Larkins,[72] the farmer’s wife, has invited her to tea, and as soon as her mother returns to take her place, she will be off to amuse herself at Greenhill. Oh yes; you might be certain that some gay meeting was expected! Look at the necklace of false coral round her neck, the half-soiled lace which she has sewn round her frock, and her hair all in papers at this hour of the day; you would laugh were you to see her, but to me the sight of her folly is really too sad for laughing. Of what is she thinking as she quickly untwists the papers, and curls her long hair round her fingers? Her thoughts are divided between impatience at her mother’s delay, fears of herself being late for the party, and wishes that the pedlar would only happen to call at her cottage.
She had heard that day, from one of her school-fellows, that a man had been going about the neighbourhood with a pack so full of beautiful things, that such a collection had never before been seen in the village.[73] Polly had been particularly tempted by the description of some brooches made of false diamonds, and exactly like real ones, as the girl, who had never seen a jewel in her life, very positively affirmed. One of these fine brooches was to be had for sixpence—how eager was Polly to be its possessor! She counted over her little treasure of pence, and found that she had sufficient for the purchase.
But how was she to find the pedlar? Had Polly not been tied to the cottage by what she called “these tiresome children,” she would long ago have gone in search of him. She could hardly expect him to pass down her little lane, but she was near enough to the high-road to see if any one passed along it in going through the village. At one time she had set little Johnny to watch, and more than once her hopes had been raised as the little fellow shouted aloud, “There’s the man!” But Polly came running first to see a drover[74] with pigs, then the baker with his little cart going his rounds;—she had a disappointment, poor Johnny a slap, and he was sent crying into the cottage. This was rather hard upon him, poor little fellow. How could a child, not three years old, be expected to know the difference between a pedlar and a baker?
But all was quiet again in the cottage, Johnny occupied with his supper, and Polly with her curl-papers, when in through the open door who should make her entrance but Stickasting. She came in, as usual, in no amiable mood, quite ready to take offence on the very shortest notice. She first settled on the little baby’s arm; but the infant lay perfectly still, half-comforted in his troubles by sucking his thumb: the most passionate bee in the world could find no excuse for being angry with him. Stickasting rested for a few moments on the thin, tiny arm, then rose and approached Polly Bright.
Every sensible person knows that when a[75] bee or a wasp hovers near, the safest way is to keep quiet and take no notice; but Polly was not a very sensible person, and being not very courageous either, was quite frightened when the insect touched her face. If Stickasting had mistaken it for a flower, she would very soon have found out her blunder, and left the little girl in peace; but, starting back with a cry, Polly struck the bee, and Stickasting, roused to fury, quickly returned the blow. Mad with passion, the insect struck her sting so deep, that it was impossible to withdraw it again, and she left it behind, which occasions certain death to a bee.
Stickasting felt at once that she had thrown away her life in a wild desire for revenge; that her destruction was caused by her own violent act—she crawled feebly a few inches from the spot where she fell, and expired—a victim to her temper.
Loud was the scream which Polly Bright uttered on being stung; so loud that it[76] brought, from the opposite cottage, both Minnie Wingfield and her brother. On finding out the cause of Polly’s distress, Minnie hastily ran back for the blue-bag, or a little honey, to relieve the pain of her school-fellow. But Tom, who had very little pity in his nature, stood shaking with laughter at the adventure.
 
POOR STICKASTING.
“Stung by a bee!—stung on the very tip of the nose!—what a beauty you will look at Greenhill to-night!—ha! ha! ha!—if you could only see how funny you look, your hair half in curl-papers, and half hanging down, and your eyes as red with crying as[77] the coral round your neck! You are for all the world like silly Sally!”
[78]
 
TOM LAUGHING AT POLLY.
[79]“It does not show much, does it?” said poor Polly anxiously, as Minnie returned with the blue-bag.
“It is swelling!” cried Tom—“swelling higher and higher!—’twill be just like the turkey-cock’s comb!”
“Then I can’t go to-night!—I will not go!” exclaimed Polly, sitting down and bursting into tears.
Tom laughed louder, Minnie in vain tried to comfort,—all Polly’s happiness was for the time overthrown by a bee! It rested but on trifles, and a trifle was enough to make her wretched for the rest of that day.