"A note from you will make her very happy," Polly smiled.
"She shall have it at once," the minister promised; adding, "I am glad she is in so beautiful a Home."
Polly shook her head promptly. "No, Mr. Parcell, it is not a beautiful Home, it is a prison—a horrible prison!"
"Why, my dear! I do not understand—"
"I don't want you to understand!" Polly cried hurriedly. "I ought not to have said that! Only it came out! You will know, Mr. Parcell, before long—people shall know! I won't have—oh, I mustn't say any more! Don't tell a word of this, Mr. Parcell. Promise me you won't!"
"My dear child,"—the man gazed at her as if he doubted her sanity,—"tell me what the trouble is! Perhaps I shall be able to help matters."
"Oh, no, you can't! It must work out! I am going to see Mr. Randolph as soon as—I can. But please promise me not to say a word about it to anybody!"
"I shall certainly repeat nothing that you have told me. Indeed, there is little I could say; I do not understand it at all. I supposed the June Holiday Home was a model in every respect."
Polly shook her head sadly.
"I am there every day, Mr. Parcell, and I know! The ladies are lovely—most of them. They can't say a word, or they'd be turned out, and I've kept still too long! But I mustn't tell you any more." Polly drew a long breath. "I must go now, Mr. Parcell. I am so glad you like Miss Twining's poems! And you'll forgive me, won't you, for all I have said?"