I hope you don't mind.

She was so eager to see the baby." "Oh, it's Miss Polly!" cried Gabriella; and without stopping to explain, she ran upstairs and into the nursery, where little Frances was cooing with delight in Miss Polly's arms.
The seamstress' small birdlike face, framed by the silk quilling of her old lady's bonnet, broke into a hundred cheerful wrinkles at the sight of Gabriella.

Even the grotesqueness of her appearance--of her fantastic mantle trimmed with bugles, made from her best wrap in the 'seventies, of her full alpaca skirt, with its wide hem stiffened by buckram, of her black cotton gloves, and her enormous black broadcloth bag--even these things could not extinguish the pleasure Gabriella felt in the meeting.
If Miss Polly was ridiculous at home, she was twice as ridiculous in New York, but somehow it did not seem to matter.

The sight of her brought happy tears to the girl's eyes, and in the attempt to hide them, she buried her face in the warm, flower-scented neck of little Frances.
"She's the peartest baby I ever saw," remarked Miss Polly with pride.
"Wouldn't yo' ma dote on her ?" "Wouldn't she?
But how did you leave mother and Jane and the children?
The baby must be a big boy now." "He's runnin' around all the time, and never out of mischief.

I never saw such a child for mischief.