“I will,” said Polly, “just as tight as I can, Auntie.”

“Oh—­oh!  Percy is so much worse off than Joel,” wailed Mrs. Whitney.  “Oh! to do such a thing, Polly!” she groaned.

“They only meant it in fun,” said Polly, swallowing hard the lump in her throat, “don’t let us talk about it, Auntie.”

“And Van,” cried Mrs. Whitney, running on.  “Oh! my poor, poor boys.  Will your mother ever forgive me, Polly?”

“Oh, Auntie! don’t talk so,” said Polly tenderly; “and we both ought to be out helping.  There’s Van, Auntie; just think how he feels.”

“I can’t go near him,” cried Mrs. Whitney in distress, “as long as he is in Joel’s room, for I can see your mother’s eyes, Polly.  It would kill me to have her look at me.”

The door opened at this, and the trail of a long silken wrapper was heard on the floor.

“Mrs. Chatterton,” said Mrs. Whitney, raising her head and looking at the new-comer with as much anger as her gentle face could contain, “I really cannot see you in my room to-night.  Excuse me, but I am unstrung by all that has occurred.  Will you please not come in”—­

“I thought I might sit with you,” said Mrs. Chatterton.  In the brief interval since the arousing of the household, she had contrived to make a perfect breakfast toilet, and she folded her hands over her handsome gown.  “Polly might then be with her mother.  But if you don’t wish me to remain, I will go.”

“I do not need you,” said Mrs. Whitney, decidedly, and she turned to Polly again.

Mrs. Chatterton moved away, and closed the door after her.

“Auntie,” said Polly, “she really wants to help you.”

“Polly, you needn’t say anything about it,” exclaimed Mrs. Whitney, like many other gentle creatures, when roused, becoming unreasonably prejudiced; “I cannot bear the sight of that woman.  She has been here so long, and is so intensely disagreeable to us all.”

Polly’s eyes became very round, and she held her breath in astonishment.

“Don’t look so, child,” said Mrs. Whitney at length, “you don’t understand, my dear.  But you would if you were in my place”—­

“She’s sorry for it,” said Polly, finding her tongue at last.

“And father is nearly worn out with her,” continued Mrs. Whitney.  “And now to come parading her attentions upon me, it”—­

“Who—­who?” Dicky, now that the excitement in Joel’s room had died down, had lost his relish for it, and he now pranced into Mrs. Whitney’s room.  “Who, mamma?”

“Mrs. Chatterton,” said Mrs. Whitney unguardedly.  “She has disagreeably intruded herself upon me.”

“Has she been in here?” asked Dick in astonishment.

“Yes; asking if she can sit with me,” and Polly started at the look in the usually soft blue eyes.

“And you wouldn’t let her?” asked Dick, stopping short and regarding his mother curiously.

“Of course not, Dicky,” she made haste to say.