“I supposed I cared for Betty a lot, I have known her so much longer than you have,” Polly went on thoughtfully, “but I don’t half love her as you do, Esther, even in this little while. I suppose it is because you haven’t any relatives of your own and your father is still so new to you. But didn’t you have a baby brother or some one long years ago——?”
Polly’s remark was never finished because Miss Dyer now got up quickly. Because the evenings were so cool the May Council Fire had started early and though it was well nigh over, there was still a faint reflection of daylight.
“I thought I heard the wheels of a wagon several moments ago,” she explained, “and now I think I can see Dr. Barton’s buggy being driven this way. I wonder what in the world he can want with us at this time of the evening? Polly, will you come back to the cabin with me to see.”
The Council Fire was being held at no great distance from the Sunrise cabin, but perhaps it was Rose Dyer’s purpose at this moment to separate Polly and Esther.
Of course Polly followed with entire willingness, but a few feet from their door, seeing Dr. Barton’s buggy draw nearer and that it held two occupants instead of one, her face crimsoned and she bit her lips to control her vexation. She was returning to join the girls when Dr. Barton’s voice called after her: “Don’t go away, Miss O’Neill, please, our call is upon your sister and you. I was driving through the woods and found Mr. Webster with a telegram which had been telephoned to the farm and which he was bringing out to you and I offered to give him a lift.”
Although neither of the two young men had received any invitation to alight, they both got out of the buggy and both wearing somewhat crestfallen expressions, stood gazing at the two young women.
“I will call Mollie,” Polly declared stiffly, drawing back from Billy’s hand which held a square of paper in it.
“You need not speak to me, Miss O’Neill, simply because I happen to be your messenger boy,” the young man said as haughtily as Polly could have spoken. “And you need not feel any contamination at accepting this message from me. The telegram was telephoned out to our farm and my mother wrote it down, so I haven’t the faintest idea what the paper contains.”
Without showing any further signs of recognizing the speaker, Polly reached for the paper, but the next instant her frightened cry for Mollie brought her sister, Sylvia Wharton, and half a dozen other persons to her side. “I must have read it wrong, it is so dark, or your mother must have made some mistake!” Polly cried, forgetting her policy of silence in her agitation. And then standing with a white face and clenched teeth she watched Mollie read the message.
Mollie did not betray any great grief or anger, only a considerable amount of surprise, so that Polly for an instant believed her own eyes must have deceived her.