“Please, aunt, I’d rather not go,” faltered the girl.
“Go and dress yourself this minute,” exclaimed the housekeeper, firmly: “and look here, if you dare to cry, and make those eyes red, I’ll punish you.”
Polly shivered, went to her room, and came back, looking as pretty a little rustic rosebud as could be seen for miles around.
“Ah,” said Mrs Lloyd, hanging about her with a grim smile on her face, to give a pull at a plait here, a brush at a fold there, and ending by smoothing the girl’s soft hair—“if he can resist that, he’s no man.”
“Please, aunt, what do you mean?” pleaded the girl. “Don’t send me out again.”
“There are no captains about now, goose, are there?” said the housekeeper, angrily.
“No, aunt, dear,” faltered the girl; “but don’t send me out. What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd; “as if you didn’t know what I mean. To raise the house of Lloyd, child—to make you mistress of Penreife—”
“Oh, aunt!”
“Instead of letting you throw yourself away upon a common servant.”