“You shall tell your husband, Polly,” cried Julia, hotly.
“I—I was afraid, Miss Julia,” sobbed Polly. “I was afraid of making mischief. I dared not tell him. If he thought Mr Cyril came here and troubled me, he would be ready to kill him, Miss, and me too. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”
“I’ll tell papa,” said Cynthia, who had come back unseen. “I declare it’s shameful, and I—I wish my brothers were both dead. Oh, Ju, papa must know.”
“No, no,” said Julia, holding the sobbing little woman to her breast; “Polly is right. It would be making terrible mischief. I’ll speak to Cyril myself, and if he will not listen to me, mamma shall try. But, Polly, you will tell me if he comes again?”
“Oh, yes, yes, Miss Julia,” cried the young wife, gazing up passionately in her visitor’s face.
“And always tell me the whole truth?”
“Indeed—indeed I will. Please, Miss Julia,” she said simply, “I don’t think I ever told a lie.”
“I don’t believe you ever did, Polly,” said Julia, kissing her, and turning to the door to go. “There, good-bye, and don’t be low-spirited. Cyril is soon going away again, and even if he is not, he shall not trouble you.”
“Thank you, Miss Julia, and you too, Miss Cynthia,” said the young wife, wiping her eyes; “and perhaps you will be at baby’s christening?”
“If papa doesn’t object, indeed we will,” cried Julia, smiling, and the sisters went back along the lane.