"To-morrow," answered Mother Blossom. "If I hadn't asked Bobby for the mail, we might have been in a great pickle. She's coming on the nine-fifty-six to-morrow morning."
"Aunt Polly!" shouted the four little Blossoms.
Mother Blossom put her hands over her ears.
"Don't all talk at once," she begged. "Yes, Aunt Polly is coming. She can't stay long, not even a week----"
"But what do you think?" interrupted Father Blossom. "She wants the four Blossoms to go home with her!"
"Ralph, you're not a bit better than Bobby," scolded Mother Blossom. "I didn't want to tell them to-night. However, there's no use trying to keep a secret in this family. Aunt Polly has invited you all to spend the summer at Brookside Farm."
Well, of course, the children could talk of nothing else after that. Aunt Polly Hayward was Mother Blossom's eldest sister. She was a widow and lived on a fine farm many miles distant from the town of Oak Hill. She came often to visit Mother Blossom, and the children thought there was no one like her. To go to see Aunt Polly was a wonderful treat, and even Bobby, who, as the oldest of the four little Blossoms, had had more experiences than the others, had never been away from home in his life to stay.
They were all up early the next morning, and Sam and the car took Father Blossom to the foundry immediately after breakfast so as to be back in time to meet Aunt Polly.
"Aunt Polly's coming, Norah," said Meg, happily, as Norah was clearing the table.
"Sure, and I've heard nothing else since last night," rejoined Norah. "How is the dog, your poor patient, this bright morning?"
Bobby and Twaddles and Dot looked at each other.
"The dog?" repeated Bobby. "My goodness, we forgot him!"
"I didn't forget him," Meg said. "At least, I remembered him after I was in bed. I came down to feed him, and Daddy heard me and wouldn't let me go out in my nightgown. He took him some bread and milk. And this morning I fed him before breakfast."
"How's he feel?" asked Twaddles sympathetically.
"He's ever so much better," Meg informed him. "He can wag his leg some."
"His tail, you mean," corrected Bobby. "Dogs don't wag their legs."
"They do, too," argued Meg. "Anyway this one does, so that shows he is better. And I've thought up a name for him. I'm going to call him Philip."