Polly, Polly and Francie

Polly went skipping around, cutting the brad, and bringing dishes. Francie still stood just where Polly left her. 200 candles. Oh, what could it mean? She gazed up to the old beams overhead, and around the dingy walls,. The fire nearly out, with the old black stow, with the fire nearly out - she tried to think how it would seem. And Francie, classed her fat little hands and rapture at the top.