"Where have you been, Polly?" cried Jasper, coming out of a side passage in time to catch a dissolving view of her flying figure. "Polly—Polly!" and he took three steps to her one, and gained her side.
"Oh! don't stop me," begged Polly, flying on, "don't, Jasper."
He took a good look at her face. "Anything I can help you about?" he asked quickly.
She suddenly stopped, her foot on the stair above. "Oh, Jasper!" she cried, with clasped hands, "you don't know—she may die, and I said horribly cruel things to her."
"Who—Mrs. Chatterton?" said the boy, opening his dark eyes; "why, you couldn't have said cruel things to her, Polly. Don't be foolish, child." He spoke as he would to Phronsie's terror, and smiled into her face. But it did not reassure Polly.
"Jasper, you don't know; you can't guess what dreadful things I said," cried poor overwhelmed Polly, clasping her hands tightly together at the mere thought of the words she had uttered.
"Then she must have said dreadful things to you," said the boy.
"She—but, oh, Jasper! that doesn't make it any better for me," said Polly. "Don't stop me; I am going to see if they won't let me do something for her."
"There are ever so many people up there now," said Jasper. "Your mother, and Hortense, and two or three maids. What in the world could you do, Polly? Come down into the library, and tell us all about it."
But Polly broke away from him with an "Oh! I must do something for her," speeding on until she softly worked her way into the sick room.