“Yes, poor little mite, she did, in a touching way,” said Helen; “but she seemed in trouble about something. You know how reserved she is about her feelings, but when she sat on my knee she quite sobbed.”
“I was rather brutal to her,” said Polly, in a nonchalant tone, flinging up the sash of the bed-room window as she spoke, and indulging in a careless whistle.
It was bed-time, but the girls were tempted by the moonlight night to sit up and look out at the still, sweet beauty, and chatter together.
“How could you be unkind to her?” said Helen, in a voice of dismay. “Polly, dear, do shut that window again, or you will have a sore throat. How could you be unkind to poor little Fly, Poll, when she is so devoted to you?”
“The very reason,” said Polly. “She’d never have gone over to you if I hadn’t. I saw rebellion in that young ’un’s eye—that was why I called her out. I was determined to nip it in the bud.”
“But you rebelled yourself?”
“Yes, and I mean to go on rebelling. I am not Fly.”
“Well, Polly,” said Helen, suppressing a heavy sigh on her own account; “you know I don’t want you a bit to obey me. I am not a mistressing sort of girl, and I like to consult you about things, and I want us both to feel more or less as equals. Still father says there are quite two years between us, and that the scheme cannot be worked at all unless some one is distinctly at the head. He particularly spoke of you, Polly, and said that if you would not agree we must go back to the idea of Miss Jenkins, or that he will let this house for a time, and send us all to school.”
“A worse horror than the other,” said Polly. “I wouldn’t be a school-girl for all you could give me! Why, the robin’s nest might be discovered by some one else, and my grubs and chrysalides would come to perfection without me. No, no; rather than that—can’t we effect a compromise, Nell?”
“What is it?” asked Helen. “You know I am willing to agree to anything. It is father.”