“When your opinion is asked, then give it!” observed Polly, in exasperation.
She sat down and cried a little when she was alone.
She did not want Christina to go, she did not want any changes in her home; everything had been very happy before that big, nasty man had come that morning and upset them all. It was he who had driven Chrissie away.
Of course Polly did not quite think Chrissie ought to have gone, and have left her mother so unhappy, especially when that mother had always been so good to Chrissie.
In a little, stinging way, remembrance brought before Polly very clearly how much had been given to Chrissie, and had been lacking elsewhere.
In every way possible her mother had spared her eldest child. She did not know, in her blind love, that her unselfishness in this had been remarked by more than one person, and she had surely never dreamed that the day would come when Chrissie would repay her so poorly.
Polly was very unhappy about it; she hated shedding tears, as a rule, but now she wept freely.
“Home will never be the same again,” she said to herself, with a desolating feeling pressing on her heart.
She saw the maid who had come from Chrissie, and to her she confided one or two boxes, and a little scribbled note she had written on the spur of the moment.
“Tell my sister the other things shall be sent to-morrow, and oh! please will you be sure to give Miss Pennington that note?”