“I’ll promise,” she said gently and slid back upon the bench and then down to the safety of the floor, as quietly and obediently as if she had never been defiant in all her life.
But the scare and the struggle had been too much for Polly. At sight of Priscilla’s innocent air, her eyes blazed resentfully. She felt, somehow, that she was being terribly wronged and imposed upon, and for the first time since she had known Priscilla she was thoroughly indignant at her.
The sound of the sweet little voice repeating softly: “Aren’t you going to get my doll?” roused her to a sudden quick and uncontrollable anger. She grasped Priscilla by the arm and shook her fiercely; shook her till her bright, flossy hair danced up and down upon her shoulders in a golden cloud and all the color was gone from her lips and cheeks. Polly’s own face was scarlet and her eyes flashing fire.
“You are a naughty girl!” she cried, vehemently. “As naughty as you can be. You ought to be punished!”
Priscilla simply gazed at her and made no answer. She was so pale, Polly’s heart misgave her.
“I—I’m sorry I shook you,” she burst out remorsefully. “I didn’t mean to, Priscilla. I don’t know what made me do it! I’m awfully sorry.”
Still Priscilla was silent.
“You’re not angry at me, are you, Priscilla?”
Priscilla’s white lips opened just far enough to let out the words: “I think you might get my doll.”
Polly started to run, but on the threshold she stopped and turned back. “Remember what you’ve promised,” she said, with trembling lips.