“My father will not think so!” exclaimed the almost hysterical Bess. “When he learns of this he will not be able to do enough for you—”
“Your father can do nothing for me, Bessie Lavine!” cried the boatman’s daughter, with sharpness.
“Oh, Polly!” said Wyn, holding out her arms to her.
“He’ll–he’ll want to,” pursued Bess, eagerly. “Oh! he will! He’d do anything for you now—”
“There’s only one thing Henry Lavine can do for me,” cried Polly, turning an angry face now toward the shore. “He can stop telling stories about my father. He can be kind to him–be decent to him. I don’t want anything else–and I don’t want that as pay for fishing you out of the lake!”
She had got the sail up again and now the breeze filled it. The Coquette laid over and slipped away from the shore. Her last words had silenced all the girls–even Mrs. Havel herself.
Bess burst into tears. She was quite broken down, and Wyn went off with her to the tent, her arm over her shoulder, and whispering to her comfortingly.
“I don’t care. Polly’s served her right,” declared Frank Cameron.
“I do not know that Polly can be blamed,” Mrs. Havel observed. “But–but I wish she was more forgiving. It is not for herself that she speaks, however. It is for her father.”
“And I’ll wager he’s just as nice a man as ever was,” declared Frank. “I’m going to ask my father if he will not do something for Mr. Jarley.”