Polly shook her head. “Don’t try to remember. You are here in good hands. All you have to do is to obey orders and try to get well and strong.”
“I begin to remember.” The patient spoke slowly as if recalling, gradually, certain events. “I came home and couldn’t get in; then somebody fired at me.” He looked at Polly inquiringly, and the blood mounted to the very roots of her hair.
“Yes, but you must wait till you are stronger to hear all about it,” she told him. “We do not know your name, and you do not know us. I am Polly O’Neill; that’s enough for you to know at one time. We’ll talk about the hows and whys later.”
She left the room and went downstairs where she at once sought out Agnes, beckoning to her with a look of mystery. “He’s got his mind again,” she said. “Now, what’s to be done? Do you suppose he’ll be telling it around that Polly O’Neill made a target of him?”
“Of course not. When we explain that he was breaking into our house, he will be glad enough to keep quiet about it; and if he does not, I think we shall have our own story to tell, and it will be believed.” Agnes gave her head a toss and Polly laughed.
“Very well, then,” said the latter, “since you are so high an’ mighty about it, suppose you go up with this dish of porridge an’ see what he has to say for himself.”
“Ah, but, Polly—”
“No ah buts; go right along,” and Polly gave her a good-humored push toward the table where the bowl of porridge stood.
“He’s a young man,” said Agnes, still hesitating.
“Yes, and good looking and nice spoken. He’ll not bite you,” returned Polly, blandly. “Go along with your porridge before it gets cold; and if he wants to talk, let him.”