“You may sit down and read a little, if you like,” she said ungraciously.  So Polly, happy as a queen at the permission, slipped into a convenient chair, and began at once.  She happened fortunately on just the right things for the hungry ears; a description of a large church wedding, the day before; two or three bits about society people that Mrs. Chatterton had lost sight of, and a few other items just as acceptable.

Polly read on and on, from one thing to another, not daring to look up to see the effect, until at last everything in the way of gossip was exhausted.

“Is that all?” asked Mrs. Chatterton hungrily.

Polly, hunting the columns for anything, even a murder account if it was but in high life, turned the paper again disconsolately, obliged to confess it was.

“Well, do put it by, then,” said Mrs. Chatterton sharply, “and not whirl it before my face; it gives me a frightful headache.”

“I might get the Town Talk” suggested Polly, as a bright thought struck her.  “It came yesterday.  I saw it on the library table.”

“So it is Saturday.”  Mrs. Chatterton looked up quickly.  “Yes, you may, Polly,” her mouth watering for the revel she would have in its contents.

So Polly ran over the stairs with delighted feet, and into the library, beginning to rummage over the papers and magazines on the reading table.

“Where is it?” she exclaimed, turning them with quick fingers.  “O dear! it was right here last evening.”

“What is it?” asked Phronsie, from the depths of a big arm-chair, and looking up from her book.  Then she saw as soon as she had asked the question that Polly was in trouble, so she laid down her book, and slid out of the chair.  “What is it, Polly?  Let me help you, do.”

“Why, the Town Talk—­that hateful old society thing,” said Polly, throwing the papers to right and left.  “You know, Phronsie; it has a picture of a bottle of ink, and a big quill for a heading.  O dear! do help me, child, for she will get nervous if I am gone long.”

“Oh!  I know where that is,” said Phronsie deliberately, laying a cool little hand on Polly’s hot one.

“Where?” demanded Polly feverishly.  “Oh, Phronsie! where?”

“Jack Rutherford has it.”

Polly threw down the papers, and started for the door.

“He has gone,” said Phronsie; “he went home almost an hour ago.”

Polly turned sharply at her.  “What did he want Town Talk for?”

“He said it was big, and he asked Grandpapa if he might have it, and
Grandpapa said, Yes.  I don’t know what he wanted it for,” said Phronsie. 
“And he took other newspapers, too, Polly; oh! ever so many.”

“Well, I don’t care how many he took, nor what they were,” cried Polly, “only that very identical one.  O dear me!  Well, I’ll ask Jasper.”

And rushing from the library, Phronsie following in a small panic over Polly’s distress, she knocked at the door of Jasper’s den, a little room in the wing, looking out on the east lawn.