"No such thing," contradicted Percy flatly, his face growing red.
"Polly, he tells perfectly awful yarns. You mustn't believe him, Polly,
You won't, will you?" He leaned over appealingly toward her.
"Oh! don't, don't," cried Polly, quite dismayed, "talk so to each other."
"Well, he's so hateful," cried Van, "and the airs he gives himself! I can't stand them, Polly, you know"—
"And he's just as mean," cried Percy vindictively. "Oh! you can't think, Polly. Here we are," as Thomas gave a grand flourish through the stone gateway, and up to the steps.
"I'll help you out," and he sprang out first.
"No, I will," declared Van, opening the door on the other side, jumping out and running around the carriage. "Here, Polly, take my hand, do."
"No, I got here first," said Percy eagerly, his brown glove extended quite beyond Van's hand.
"I don't want any one to help me, who speaks so to his brother," said Polly in a low voice, and with her most superb air stepping down alone, she ran up the steps to leave them staring in each other's faces.
Here everybody came hurrying out to the porch, and they were soon drawn into the warm loving welcome awaiting them.
"Oh, Felicie! I don't want that dress," said Polly as she ran into her room after dinner, to Mrs. Whitney's French maid, "I'm going to wear my brown cashmere."