“Oh, yes, sir,” said Polly, hurriedly. “I know all about that. You told me how you felt in your letter. And I’m sure I am obliged to you—”
“For what?” demanded the gentleman, smiling. “I have done nothing but acknowledge in empty phrases your bravery and good sense. I think a deal of my Bessie, and I must show you in some more substantial way how much I appreciate what you did for her.”
“No, sir; you cannot do that,” declared Polly, very much flushed, but with firmness, too.
“Oh, come, now I My dear girl! Don’t be so offish—”
“You have thanked me sufficiently, sir,” declared Polly. “If I did not know better than to accept anything more substantial myself, my father would not allow it.”
“Oh, come now! Your father—”
“My father, sir, is John Jarley. He used to be your friend and partner in business. You have seen fit to spread abroad tales about him that he denies–that are untrue, sir,” pursued Polly, her anger making her voice tremble.
“From you, Mr. Lavine, we could accept nothing–no charity. If we are poor, and if I have no advantages–such advantages as your daughter has, for instance–you are as much to blame for it as anybody.”
“It is true. Your libelling of my father ruined his reputation in Denton. He could get no business there. And it worried my mother almost to death. So he had to come away up here into the woods.”