“It is my sister’s,” she declared. “The burglars—”
“Botheration!” he cried. “Of course, it isn’t the same pin! This one is Polly’s. It was a present to her, and she thinks a lot of it.”
“But I scratched the ‘B’—”
“Probably somebody else scratched this. Did you, Polly?” turning to his cousin.
“No,” she admitted slowly, “I didn’t; but I noticed the ‘B,’ and wondered how it came to be there. I don’t see how it could have been your sister’s,” she said, addressing the girl who still kept the pin hidden in her hand. “Chris’s father bought it for him to give to me.”
Those most interested in this little controversy were now surrounded by the young guests who were eager to know the cause of the dispute. Floyd and Julian pressed near, but before they reached Polly’s side she had bravely settled the question.
“Keep the pin,” she yielded gently. “I should not wish to have it back again if you think it belongs to your sister. Come, Harold!” and turning from the little crowd she ran into the arms of Floyd.
He drew her away to a retired spot, followed only by the eyes of a few curious ones, and the story was told, beginning with little Chris and ending with Bertha Kingstone.
Polly was close to tears as she finished, and Harold was openly indignant that she should have allowed Bertha to keep the pin.