He tried her that night. He did not take out his meerschaum; and she remained sitting on his knee, looking very happy, instead of slipping off, and running to Nunky. She kissed him, too, a great many times.
“Oh, dearly I do! But I wish your head wasn’t so bald,” said Posy, patting it mournfully. “I’m afraid you’ll be my grandpa ’fore I know it.”
“Well, poor papa can’t help growing bald. But do you think he’s nicer when he doesn’t smoke?”
“And how many sweet kisses will you give me every day I’m good and don’t smoke?”
“Five hundred million thousand!” cried Posy, clapping her hands.
Papa smiled, and said that was one too many; and then he looked sober, for he had a great mind to begin, for Posy’s sake, to stop smoking. Dr. Field said the pipe was making him sick, and had often scolded; but Posy’s kisses touched him much more than the scoldings.
From this time he really broke off the habit entirely; and it was his little daughter who cured him.
One day Posy was crying on the street, as she was walking with Pollio; and, before she could wipe her eyes, Dr. Field crossed over, and asked,—
“She’s crying about your whiskers,” spoke up Pollio, who needn’t have told. “I said I was going to have some just like ’em when I grow up, and then she cried.”
“Well, well, Mrs. Thumb, I suppose he will; but don’t cry about ’em till they begin to grow.”
If he hadn’t called her Mrs. Thumb! and if he hadn’t laughed! Dr. Field was a wise man in every thing else, but he didn’t understand little folks.
He had really crossed the street to say something delightful, for a wonder. The sabbath school was to have a picnic next day, and he wanted to be the one to tell the good news; but, in laughing at Posy, he had forgotten it.
The children went home. Pollio led Posy into the parlor, and was affectionately drying her eyes with the lace curtain, when Mr. Lane, the new minister, called. Eliza went for Mrs. Pitcher; and Posy was going too, but her brother held her back. He thought they both ought to stay and entertain the stranger till mamma came down.
“Good-morning, my dears,” said Mr. Lane, with a smile very different from Dr. Field’s: “I suppose this is Judge Pitcher’s little daughter?”
“Me, too,” cried Pollio, stepping up, and offering his little hand. He was tired of being told that he did not look like the rest of the family, and meant to explain matters at once. “Folks think I’m French or Latin, but I’m not. I’m my father’s youngest son.”