Theresa nodded grimly.
“Is any one you know of sick?” asked poor Polly, her quick sympathy aroused at once and her thoughts traveling instantly to sister and reminding her how badly she would feel if a telegram had come saying sister was worse.
Again Theresa nodded.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Polly heartily. “I’m ever and ever so sorry, Theresa. I hope it isn’t your sister. I know how I’d feel if it was my sister.”
But like a flash of lightning a thought had shot across Theresa’s brain and before she fairly knew she was speaking she heard herself say: “It is your sister!”
All in an instant she saw her way to get Polly out of the house before the family returned. One plan was as good as another; if her first had failed, this would be pretty sure to succeed.
“Yes, child,” she went on, “it’s very sad, but—now don’t get excited,—your sister is very sick! Very, very sick indeed.”
“Does—does the telegram say that?” stammered Polly hoarsely.
“The telegram says,” declared Theresa, unfolding the paper and pretending to read it: “‘Sister worse. Wants Polly. Take first train to-morrow morning.’”
Polly clung to the stair-rail for support. She did not ask to see the telegram. It never entered her innocent mind that Theresa would stoop to deceive her. She did not doubt the woman for a moment, there was no room in her overburdened little heart for anything but grief over sister.