“Oh, I—can’t go!—I can’t!—I can’t!” she sobbed softly.
Presently she grew quiet, courage came back, determination strengthened. She began again to write. But tears brimmed her eyes and spoilt the letter once more. It was disheartening work.
At last the sorry words were down, and Polly felt that all happiness for this world was over.
“I hope I shall die quick,” she said to herself. “Then I can go and live with mamma.”
She swallowed hard. Even the prospect of Heaven was poor consolation just now.
With great painstaking she directed the envelope and placed the stamp. She could not bring herself to seal it; that could wait until the last moment. It seemed to her she should then be irrevocably bound to do the thing she had promised. It would be the final link in this dreadful chain.
A passing glance in the small mirror sent her to bathe her hot, tear-stained face before venturing down to the letter-box on the corner. She dallied with the towel until there was no further excuse, she brushed her hair into unaccustomed smoothness; finally she went slowly over to her little desk, and took up the envelope, at last sealing it hurriedly, lest her courage should utterly fail. She would slip out to the letter-box, and have the miserable business done with as soon as possible.
She had reached the door, her hand on the knob, when she heard a step in the corridor—her mother’s step. She halted guiltily, with quick intuition thrusting the letter behind her.
“Polly! are you here? May I come in?”
Hesitantly Polly opened the door.