“Why, what else could I do?” asked Polly, much disturbed.
“Let him think the bouquet was for you; then there'd have been no trouble.”
“But that would have been doing a lie, which is most as bad as telling one.”
“Don't be a goose. You've got me into a scrape, and you ought to help me out.”
“I will if I can; but I won't tell lies for anybody!” cried Polly, getting excited.
“Nobody wants you to just hold, your tongue, and let me manage.”
“Then I'd better not go down,” began Polly, when a stern voice from below called, like Bluebeard, “Are you coming down?”
“Yes, sir,” answered a meek voice; and Fanny clutched Polly, whispering, “You must come; I'm frightened out of my wits when he speaks like that. Stand by me, Polly; there's a dear.”
“I will,” whispered “sister Ann”; and down they went with fluttering hearts.
Mr. Shaw stood on the rug, looking rather grim; the bouquet lay on the table, and beside it a note, directed to “Frank Moore, Esq.,” in a very decided hand, with a fierce-looking flourish after the “Esq.” Pointing to this impressive epistle, Mr. Shaw said, knitting his black eyebrows as he looked at Fanny, “I'm going to put a stop to this nonsense at once; and if I see any more of it, I'll send you to school in a Canadian convent.”