Valentine took upon himself to question Polly closely about her future in the days that followed on poor Harold’s funeral.
“It is surely unwise to remain on in this big house all by yourselves, is it not?” he observed one day, when Polly had told him her plans.
It was his last day in town. Though it would cost him a great deal he was obliged to return to Dynechester.
“We must. We have nowhere else to go,” was Polly’s reply.
Val curbed the rush of words that would willingly have escaped his lips.
“Why not try to let or sell the house? It is so well situated you would be sure to get rid of it, Miss Polly.”
Polly was obstinate, of course.
“I don’t mean to try, Mr. Ambleton. Mother loves this old house, and she has so little left to her.”
“It seems so sad, so desolate,” Valentine said, gently. “I only thought a brighter place might be better for you both.”
The house did, indeed, seem chilly and gloomy after his own bright home. There was so much that was old and shabby in it. It seemed to him a grave of hopes and joys, the last spot in the world to restore this girl’s happy youth, and keep the courage in her brave heart.