"O, Mamsie, don't ask me," begged Polly, having hard work to keep the tears back. "Do forgive me, but need I tell?" and Polly stopped and clung to the knob of the door.
"No, Polly, if you cannot tell mother your trouble willingly, I will not ask it, child." And Mrs. Fisher turned off, and began to busy herself over her work.
Polly, quite broken down by this, deserted her door-knob, and rushed into the bedroom.
"O, Mamsie, it's about—about other people, and I didn't know as I ought to tell. Need I?" cried Polly imploringly, seizing her mother's gown just as Phronsie would.
"No more had you a right to tell, Polly," said her mother, "if that is the case," and she turned a cheerful face toward her; "I can trust my girl, that she won't keep anything that is her own, away from me. There, there;" and she smoothed Polly's brown hair with her hand. "How I used to be always telling you to brush your hair, and now how nice it looks, Polly," she added approvingly.
"It's the same fly-away hair now," said Polly, throwing back her rebellious locks with an impatient toss of the head. "Oh! how I do wish I had smooth hair like Charlotte's."
"Fly-away hair, when it's taken care of as it ought to be," observed Mrs. Fisher, "is one thing, and when it's all sixes and sevens because a girl doesn't have time to brush it, is another. Your hair is all right now, Polly, There, go, child;" and she dismissed her with a final loving pat. "I can trust you, and when your worry gets too big for you, why, bring it to mother."
So Polly, up in her own room at last, crept into a corner, and there went over every word, bitterly lamenting what she had done. At last she could endure it no longer, and she sprang up. "I'll write a note to Pickering and say I am sorry," she cried to herself. "Maybe Ben will take it to him. O, dear! I forgot; Ben is vexed with him; but perhaps he will leave it at the door. Any way, I'll ask him."
So Polly scribbled down hastily:
Dear Pickering: