"Polly!"
Mrs. Adams sprang towards her, but Polly waved her off.
"Don't touch me, mamma! Don't kiss me, till you know all about it,
what I've done! I'm to blame about Alan."
Without speaking Mrs. Adams caught up the afghan from the sofa and
wrapped it closely about her daughter. Then, leading her to the
bright wood fire, she sat down before it and took Polly into her
lap, as if she had been a little child. The gentleness of her
manner, the unspoken sympathy for some trouble which she did not
yet know, had started Polly's tears to flowing again, and for a
long time she could only cling to her mother and sob, with her
head against the soft, warm cheek and a loving arm about her
shoulders.
For some moments, the quiet of the room was only broken by the
measured ticking of the clock on the mantel and the snapping of
the fire on the andirons. At length Mrs. Adams said gently,--
"Now, Polly, tell me all about it."
And Polly told, sparing herself in no way, but giving all the
details with a merciless truthfulness, and ending, with a sob,--
"And after all that, mamma, he tried to help me up when I fell,
and I drove him off, and now--Oh, what shall I do! Scold me, if
you want to; you ought to! I tried to tell you before, but I
couldn't.
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