But at last the wonderful brooch of false diamonds was produced. There was only one left in the pedlar’s stock. How fortunate did Polly think it that it also had not been sold! Neckerchief, lace, pin, or ring was nothing compared to this. She tried it on, had some doubts of the strength of the pin, tried in vain to obtain a lessening of the price. It ended in the girl’s placing all her pence in the hand of the pedlar, and carrying home her prize with delight. She had had her wish. Her vanity was gratified—the brooch was her own; but to possess is not always to enjoy.
POLLY AND THE PEDLAR.
Polly returned to her cottage with much slower steps; she was heated, and tired, and perhaps a little conscious that she had not been faithful to her trust. As she came near her home she quickened her pace, for to her surprise she heard voices within, and voices whose tones told of anxiety and fear. These were the words which struck her ear, and made her pause ere she ventured to enter,—
“What a mercy it is that I returned for the basket that I had forgotten! If I had not, what would have become of my poor babe!” exclaimed Mrs. Bright in much agitation.
“I can’t understand how it happened,” replied another voice, which Polly knew to be that of Mrs. Wingfield.
“You may well say that,” said the mother. Polly could hear that she was rocking her chair backwards and forwards, as she sometimes did when hushing the sick child to sleep. “I left Polly in charge of the children: I came back to find her gone, and my poor, poor baby in a fit.”
Polly turned cold, and trembled so that she could hardly stand.
“Is there no one who could go for a doctor?” continued the agitated mother; “another fit may come on—I would give the world to see him!”