"I should think you might be able to see for yourself," replied
Polly, with dignity.
Alan surveyed her in astonishment, then asked,—
"Can't I help you?"
"No!" snapped Polly shortly.
The boy gave a long, low whistle, the meaning of which was so obvious as to be anything but soothing to Polly's ruffled feelings.
"Got a pain in your temper? Didn't you sleep well last night?" he inquired, with mock sympathy.
Polly vouchsafed no reply.
"Perhaps you lay awake to write another poem," he went on. "How was it, it went: 'The children went chestnutting—'?"
What unlucky chance had implanted in Alan's mind the spirit of teasing, and in Polly's, at the same moment, the spirit of perversity? What ever was the cause, the result was the same; and Polly, in her present mood, could not endure this slighting reference to her poem which she had fondly imagined was a secret between Molly and herself. Her face grew white to the very lips, as she faced the lad below.
"Alan Hapgood!" she exclaimed; "what right have you to say so? If you don't keep still, I'll turn the water on you."