I'm singing 'neath thy window, when night dews are chill,
For, pretty Polly Oliver, we hear you are ill.'
She was about to despatch Master Jack to his tent with a round
scolding, when the last words of the song were frozen on his lips by
the sound of a smothered sob, in place of the saucy retort he hoped
to provoke. The unexpected sob frightened him more than any fusilade
of hot words, and he stole away in the darkness more crestfallen than
he had been for many a year.
Mrs. Winship, more troubled than ever, pulled apart the canvas
curtains, and stood in the opening, silently. The sight of the
forlorn little figure, huddled together on the straw bed, touched her
heart, and, when Polly started up with an eloquent cry and flew into
her extended arms, she granted willing forgiveness, and the history
of the afternoon was sobbed out upon her motherly shoulder.
The next morning Mrs. Winship announced that Polly was better, sent
breakfast to her tent, and by skilful generalship drove everybody
away from the camp but Elsie, who brought Polly to the sitting-room,
made her comfortable on the lounge, and, administering much good
advice to Margery and Bell concerning topics to be avoided, admitted
them one by one into her presence, so that she gradually regained her
self-control. And at the dinner-table a very pale Polly was present
again, with such a white face and heavy eyes that no one could doubt
there had been a headache, while two people, at least, knew that
there had been a heartache as well.
Pages:
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186