“Stupide!” exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton among her pillows.  “Go back, and do as I bid you, girl; the lower left-hand corner bottle!”

Without a word Polly returned, and bringing the right vial set about its use as directed, in a rapidly growing dismay at the evil feelings surging through her, warning her it would not be safe to stay in the room much longer.

“Do you understand,” presently began Mrs. Chatterton, fastening her cold blue eyes upon her, “what your position is in this house?  Everybody else appears to be blind and idiotic to the last degree; you seem to have a little quickness to catch an idea.”

As Polly did not answer, the question was repeated very sharply:  “Do you understand what your position is in this house?”

“Yes,” said Polly, in a low voice, and dashing out the violet water with a reckless hand, “I do.”

“Take care,” impatiently cried Mrs. Chatterton.  Then she pushed her pillow into a better position, and returned to the charge.

“What is it, pray, since you understand it so well?”

“I understand that I am here in this house,” said Polly, quite cold and white, “because dear Mr. King wants me to be here.”

“Dear Mr. King!” echoed Mrs. Chatterton, in shrill disdain.  “Stuff and nonsense,” and she put her head back for an unpleasant cackle; it could hardly be called a laugh.  “What an idiot the man is to have the wool pulled over his eyes in this fashion.  I’ll tell you, Polly”—­and she raised herself up on her elbow, the soft lace falling away from the white, and yet shapely arm.  This member had been one of her strongest claims to beauty, and even in her rage, Mrs. Chatterton paused a second to glance complacently at it in its new position—­“you are, when all is said about your dear Mr. King, and your absurd assumption of equality with refined people who frequent this house, exactly the same underbred country girl as you were in your old brown house, goodness knows wherever that is.”

“I’m glad I am,” declared Polly.  And she actually laughed merrily, while she squared her sturdy shoulders.  Nothing could be sweeter than to hear it said she was worthy of the dear little old brown house, and didn’t disgrace Mamsie’s bringing up.

The laugh was the last feather that overthrew Mrs. Chatterton’s restraint.  She was actually furious now that she, widow of Algernon Chatterton, who was own cousin to Jasper Horatio King, should be faced by such presumption, and her words put aside with girlish amusement.

“And I’ll tell you more,” she went on, sitting quite erect now on the bed, “your mother thinks she is doing a fine thing to get all her family wormed in here in this style, but she’ll”—­

Polly Pepper, the girlish gladness gone from heart and face, waited for no more.  “Our mother!” she cried stormily, unable to utter another word--"oh—­oh!” Her breath came in quick, short gasps, the hot indignant blood mounting to the brown waves of hair on her brow, while she clasped her hands so tightly together, the pain at any other time would have made her scream.