Well, some day when she was all nicely
dead of overwork and too many scoldings, she knew they'd be sorry.
Who the _they_ in question were, she did not stop to analyze,
but, forcing back the angry tears, she went away in search of the
step-ladder. Soon she returned, dragging it after her and bumping
it with unnecessary force against all the trees and corners of the
house in her way, and, planting it in position, she slowly mounted
to the top, hose in hand. She was just balanced up there, when she
saw Alan come in through the gate.
"Hullo! What you up to, Poll?" he called.
"I should think you might be able to see for yourself," replied
Polly, with dignity.
Alan surveyed her in astonishment, then asked,--
"Can't I help you?"
"No!" snapped Polly shortly.
The boy gave a long, low whistle, the meaning of which was so
obvious as to be anything but soothing to Polly's ruffled
feelings.
"Got a pain in your temper? Didn't you sleep well last night?" he
inquired, with mock sympathy.
Polly vouchsafed no reply.
"Perhaps you lay awake to write another poem," he went on. "How
was it, it went: 'The children went chestnutting--'?"
What unlucky chance had implanted in Alan's mind the spirit of
teasing, and in Polly's, at the same moment, the spirit of
perversity? What ever was the cause, the result was the same; and
Polly, in her present mood, could not endure this slighting
reference to her poem which she had fondly imagined was a secret
between Molly and herself.
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