“Here I am, Flower. Come to me. Bring me baby at once.”
Even Flower, who in many respects had nerves of iron, was startled by this sudden apparition among the bracken. For a brief instant she pressed her hand to her heart. Were Maggie’s tales true? Were there really queer and unnatural creatures to be found on the moor?
“Come here, Flower, here! I have sprained my ankle. What are you afraid of?” shouted Polly again. Then Flower sprang to her side, knelt down by her, and took her cold hand in hers. Flower’s slight fingers were warm; she was glowing all over with life and exercise.
“Where’s baby?” said Polly, a sickly fear stealing over her again when she saw that the queer girl was alone.
“Baby? She’s in the hermit’s hut with Maggie. Don’t scold me, Polly. I’m very sorry I got into a passion.”
Polly pushed Flower’s fingers a little away.
“I don’t want to be angry,” she said. “I’ve been asking God to keep me from being angry. I did wrong myself, I did very wrong, only you did worse; you did worse than I did, Flower.”
“I don’t see that at all. At any rate, I have said I am sorry. No one is expected to beg pardon twice. How is it you are out here, lying on the moor, Polly? Are you mad?”
“No. I came out to look for baby, and for you.”
“But why are you here? You could not find us in that lazy fashion.”