“What is the matter?” cried Polly.

“Oh! the Madame is eel,” said the maid; “the doctaire says it is not a lie dees time,” and she swept past Polly.

Polly clung to the stair-railing, her face whitening, and her gaze fastened upon Mrs. Chatterton’s door, where Hortense was now disappearing.  Inside, was a sound of voices, and that subdued stir that gives token of a sick room.

“I have killed her!” cried Polly’s heart.  For one wild moment she was impelled to flight; anywhere, she did not care where, to shake off by motion in the free air this paralysis of fear.  But the next she started and, rushing down the stairs and into Mr. King’s room, cried out, “Oh! dear Grandpapa, will Mrs. Chatterton die?”

“No, no, I think not,” replied the old gentleman, surprised at her feeling.  “Cousin Eunice never did show much self-control; but then, I don’t believe this piece of bad news will kill her.”

“Bad news?” gasped Polly, hanging to the table where Mr. King was writing letters.  “Oh, Grandpapa! what do you mean?”

“Bless me! where have you been, Polly Pepper,” said Mr. King, settling his eyeglass to regard her closely, “not to hear the uproar in this house?  Yes, Mrs. Chatterton received a telegram a half-hour since that her nephew, the only one that she was very fond of among her relatives, was drowned at sea, and she has been perfectly prostrated by it, till she really is quite ill.”

Polly waited to hear no more, but on the wings of the wind, flew out and up the stairs once more.

“Where have you been, Polly?” cried Jasper, coming out of a side passage in time to catch a dissolving view of her flying figure.  “Polly—­Polly!” and he took three steps to her one, and gained her side.

“Oh! don’t stop me,” begged Polly, flying on, “don’t, Jasper.”

He took a good look at her face.  “Anything I can help you about?” he asked quickly.

She suddenly stopped, her foot on the stair above.  “Oh, Jasper!” she cried, with clasped hands, “you don’t know—­she may die, and I said horribly cruel things to her.”

“Who—­Mrs. Chatterton?” said the boy, opening his dark eyes; “why, you couldn’t have said cruel things to her, Polly.  Don’t be foolish, child.”  He spoke as he would to Phronsie’s terror, and smiled into her face.  But it did not reassure Polly.

“Jasper, you don’t know; you can’t guess what dreadful things I said,” cried poor overwhelmed Polly, clasping her hands tightly together at the mere thought of the words she had uttered.

“Then she must have said dreadful things to you,” said the boy.

“She—­but, oh, Jasper! that doesn’t make it any better for me,” said Polly.  “Don’t stop me; I am going to see if they won’t let me do something for her.”

“There are ever so many people up there now,” said Jasper.  “Your mother, and Hortense, and two or three maids.  What in the world could you do, Polly?  Come down into the library, and tell us all about it.”