“Not dead!” exclaimed Polly, alarmed at the word.
“Dead! no, child. Why, how you tremble! Come to the fire; I’ll get you a little tea and toast.”
“I could not eat, it would choke me! Oh, that I had never left the children—that I had done my duty as Minnie would have done! She—she has been a comfort in her home—but I—”
“Come, come,” said Mrs. Wingfield in a soothing tone, “don’t go breaking your heart in this way; all may come right at last. Would not you like to see the baby?”
“Oh, if I might only sit up with him all night! But I may not return without Johnny.”
“Your mother never meant that. Come, I’ll take you to her myself. When she sees how you feel all this, I am sure that she will forgive you.”
Mrs. Wingfield was a kind-hearted woman, and taking Polly’s trembling hand within her own, she crossed over the lane to Mrs. Bright’s. Polly shrank back as they reached the door.
“Oh, say, do you bring me news of my child?” cried the poor anxious woman from within.
“Not of Johnny, yet still of your child. There is one here who is afraid to come in. Poor thing, she has almost cried herself to death.”
“Polly,” murmured the mother, and stretched out her arms. In another moment the poor girl was sobbing upon her bosom.