“Aunt would kill me,” sobbed Polly.
“Stuff, child! Now, be a good, sensible little girl, and fancy I’m Humphrey.”
“Oh, sir—please, sir, I couldn’t do that.”
“Come, come, speak out. Now, do you come of your own accord for these walks?”
“No, sir. I—I—Aunt makes me.”
“I thought so—I supposed so,” said Trevor. “And why do you come?”
“Oh, sir, don’t ask me, please—don’t ask me,” sobbed Polly, now crying out-right.
“Now, look here, my little girl; if you’ll speak plainly perhaps I can help you. Once more, why do you come here? There, there, don’t cry.”
“Oh, please, sir, it’s—it’s aunt’s doing.”
“Well, well, child, speak,” said Trevor, and he took the girl’s hand. “It makes me cross when you will keep on crying.”