But the next moment the work was thrown lightly to the ground, and Dr. Heriot's fingers were gently stroking the ill-used hand.
'Poor little Polly; does he often treat you to such a rough hand-shake?' he said, with a half-amused, tender smile.
'No, never,' she stammered; but then, as though gaining courage from the kind face looking down at her, 'Oh, Heriot, I am so glad he is gone. I—I want to speak to you.'
'Is that why you have been so silent?' drawing her nearer to him as she stood beside him on the rug. 'Little Heartsease, did you like my new name?'
'Don't, Heriot; I—I do not understand you; I have not been faithful at least.'
'Not in your sense of the word, perhaps, dear Polly, but in mine. What if your faithfulness should save us both from a great mistake?'
'I—I do not understand you,' she said again, looking at him with sad, bewildered eyes. 'You shall talk to me presently; but now I want to speak to you. Heriot, I was wrong to come here—wrong and self-willed. Aunt Milly was right; I have done no good. Oh, it has all been so miserable—a mistake from beginning to end; and then I thought you would never come.'
'Dear Polly, it could not be helped. Neither can I stay now.'
'You will not go and leave me again?' she said, faltering and becoming very pale. 'Heriot, you must take me with you; promise me that you will take me with you.'
'I cannot, my dear child. Indeed—indeed—I cannot'