IN WHICH SHE WISHES SHE HAD NEVER BEEN BORN.
“From Hebrew wit the maxim sprung,
Though feet should slip, ne’er let the tongue.”
Polly came at once to the tent, where she found Laura getting her belongings together.
“Why, Laura, it seems too bad you should go off so suddenly. What can I do to help you?”
The very spirit of evil entered Laura’s heart as she looked at Polly, so fresh and pretty and radiant, with her dimples dancing in and out, her hair ruffled with the effort of literary composition, and the glow of the day’s happiness still shining in her eyes. She felt as if Polly was “glad inside” that she was poisoned; she felt sure she was internally jumping for joy at her departure; and, above all, she felt that Polly was entirely too conceited over the attention she had received that day, and needed to be “taken down a peg or two.”
“Red-haired, stuck-up, saucy thing,” she thought, “how I should like to give her a piece of my mind before I leave this place, if I only dared!”
“I don’t need any help, thank you,” she said aloud, in her iciest manner.
“But it will only make your head ache to bend over and tug away at that valise, and I’ll be only too glad to do it.”
“I’ve no doubt of that,” responded Laura, meaningly. “It is useless for you to make any show of regret over my going, for I know perfectly well that you are glad to get me out of the way.”
“Why, Laura, what do you mean?” exclaimed Polly, completely dazed at this bombshell of candour.