Instead of that, she lay with wide-open eyes, staring into the
darkness and picturing Alan as she saw him turn away, with the
cold water dripping from his clothing. Suddenly she heard the bell
ring sharply, violently. Springing out of bed, she stole
noiselessly to the head of the stairs to listen, sure that it was
a message of bad news. She was not mistaken, for she heard Molly's
voice saying hurriedly,--
"Can Dr. Adams come right away? Alan is terribly ill."
Yes, he was ill, and perhaps he was going to die, and she had done
it! Polly fled desperately back to bed and, pulling the blankets
tightly over her head to smother the sound, she burst out crying
as she had never before cried, in her life, crying with shame for
herself and sorrow for her boy friend.
As soon as her first outburst was over, she raised herself on her
elbow and strained her ears to listen for the sound of her
father's return, convinced that he must and would bring good news.
It was nothing serious, she reasoned, they were unnecessarily
alarmed, for it would be too unjust for Alan to be ill, when she
alone had been the one to blame.
It was long that her father was gone. A dozen times Polly had been
sure that she heard his steps, but the moments dragged on and on,
without bringing him.
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