“What is the matter, Benedicta? What are you crying for?”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish I hadn’t ever touched your chariot at all!”
“Where is my car?” asked Polly quietly.
“Oh, Miss Polly!—it’s—down in Overlook!”
“Did you have an accident? What is the trouble? Stop crying, and tell me about it!”
“I will, Miss Polly—oh, to think I should hurt your beautiful car!” And again Benedicta wept.
“But what did you do to it?”
“I—I can’t bear to say it!”
“I will wait till you can. We must get to Overlook in time to meet that train, and I’m going to drive this car, if it’s drivable, no matter whose it is.” Polly proceeded to test the steering-gear and the brakes, without a look towards the sobbing Benedicta.
“If that old Sardis had only waited till to-morrow or next day,” began the weeping woman, “then you needn’t have known anything about it—oh, dear! You’ll never trust me again, Miss Polly, and—and—oh, I didn’t mean to do it!”