“Polly better do it alone,” said Mother Fisher, “and at once; for Mr. King is in his room reading.”
So Polly, feeling scarcely less miserable than she was before, since now she must inflict a great blow on dear Grandpapa, went slowly out into the hall, and on her errand.
Old Mr. King, as usual, was in a terrible state over the newspapers. A little pile of them lay before him on the table waiting to be scanned, while he fumed and fretted over the one he held in his hand. Polly felt, as she obeyed his “Come in” to the timid rap she bestowed on his door, as if the worst time in all the day were chosen to proffer such a dreadful request. And for a moment her heart stood still, and she did not attempt to enter.
“Come in,” commanded the old gentleman in such a dreadful roar that Polly trembled in every limb, while he marched across the long apartment and threw the door wide open. “Why in the name of all that’s sensible, don’t you—oh, my goodness me, Polly child!” and he drew her in.
He trembled inwardly as much as she, but with difficulty controlled himself to lead her to a seat. “Now, then, Polly, my child, what is the matter? Tell your old daddy.” Then, his fears getting the better of him, he broke out,—
“You’ve brought bad news. Roslyn is worse;” and started for the door.
“Grandpapa—father dear,” cried Polly, flying after him.
“Oh, it isn’t that! It’s—it’s—I’ve come—to—to ask you—”
Old Mr. King stood in front of Polly waiting for her to proceed.