“I–I guess father never made wax-work,” said Polly, hesitatingly.
She was an innocent sort of girl, who evidently lacked many advantages of education and reading that Wyn and her friends had enjoyed as a matter of course.
“Well, I never heard the name before to-day–not your name, nor your father’s,” Wyn said.
“Well, we used to live here.”
“In Denton?”
“Yes, ma’am—”
“Will you stop that?” cried Wyn. “I am Wyn Mallory, I tell you.”
“All right, Wyn. It’s a pretty name. I’ll be glad to use it,” returned Polly.
“Prove it by using it altogether,” commanded Wyn. “Now, what about your father?”
“I–I can’t tell you much about it–much of the particulars, I mean,” said the girl from Lake Honotonka, diffidently. “I don’t really know them. Father never speaks of it much. But even as a tiny girl mother explained to me that when folks said father had done wrong I must deny it. That it was not so. It was only circumstances that made him appear in the wrong. And–you know, Wyn–your mother wouldn’t lie to you!”