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My Heart's Right There — Florence L. Barclay
My Heart's Right There by Florence L. Barclay
The soldier's baby girl, in her blue print frock and white pinafore, firmly fixed into a high chair, sat up at the kitchen table, eagerly awaiting her dinner.
The high chair had seen its best days at the Rectory, where a succession of little feet had been planted upon the footboard, adventurous bodies had been kept in place by the mahogany bar, and small, untiring fingers had screwed and unscrewed the brass nobs.
But when the final Rectory baby had been promoted to the school-room, and the pretty under-nurse had married the stalwart soldier who, having passed unscathed through the South African War and a long term of foreign service, had returned to her faithful, and eager for bannsóthe high nursery chair, into which she had so often fastened her little charges, had been presented to Polly as a keepsake.
The soldier's baby girl, in her blue print frock and white pinafore, firmly fixed into a high chair, sat up at the kitchen table, eagerly awaiting her dinner.
The high chair had seen its best days at the Rectory, where a succession of little feet had been planted upon the footboard, adventurous bodies had been kept in place by the mahogany bar, and small, untiring fingers had screwed and unscrewed the brass nobs.
But when the final Rectory baby had been promoted to the school-room, and the pretty under-nurse had married the stalwart soldier who, having passed unscathed through the South African War and a long term of foreign service, had returned to her faithful, and eager for bannsóthe high nursery chair, into which she had so often fastened her little charges, had been presented to Polly as a keepsake.
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