She could "preach" to Jennie Vance about God's "holding the whole world in his arms;" but she could not always remember it herself.

She put on a white wrapper of Susy's, and, looking like a wimpled nun, followed Polly down stairs.

If she thought of wee Katie at all, she thought there were good angels in the room to guard her; but she could not trust _herself_ with them; she would rather keep close to Polly.
"I think," whispered Polly, unlocking the back door and looking out at the sky, "it must be very near morning; but the clocks have both run down, and I can only guess at the time by my feelings." Then Polly made a brisk fire in the stove, and set the tea-kettle to humming.
"Now I will get the milk-pail," said she, "and you may put on the tea-pot.

I am faint for want of something to drink." It was one of Polly's peculiarities that she always talked to children as if they had as much judgment as grown people.

Dotty did not know where to look for any tea-pot except the very best one, which stood on a shelf in the china closet; that she brought and set on the stove, empty.
"Let me go too, let me go too!" cried she, as Polly was walking out with the milk-pails.
The daisies, with "their little lamps of dew," seemed still asleep, and so did all the "red-mouthed flowers" in the garden.