But Polly held resolutely to the chair-arm, and never took her brown eyes from the cold face.

“I must say, Polly Pepper,” cried Mrs. Chatterton with rising anger, “you are the most disagreeable girl that I ever had the misfortune to meet.  I, for one, will not put up with your constant ebullitions of temper.  Go out of this room!”

Polly rose slowly and drew herself up with something so new in face and manner that the old lady instinctively put up her eyeglass and gazed curiously through it, as one would look at a strange animal.

“Humph!” she said slowly at last, “well, what do you want to say?  Speak out, and then go.”

“Nothing,” said Polly in a low voice, but quite distinctly, “only I shall not trouble you again, Mrs. Chatterton.”  And as the last words were spoken, she was out of the room.

“Pretty doings these!” Mr. King, by a dexterous movement, succeeded in slipping back of the portiere folds into the little writing-room, as Polly rushed out through the other doorway into the hall.  “A fortunate thing it was that I left Dick, to see what had become of Polly.  Now, Cousin Eunice, you move from my house!” and descending the stairs, he called determinedly, “Polly, Polly, child!”

Polly, off in her own room now, heard him, and for the first time in her life, wished she need not answer.

“Polly—­Polly!” the determined call rang down the passage, causing her to run fast with a “Yes, Grandpapa, I’m coming.”

“Now, I should just like to inquire,” began Mr. King, taking her by her two young shoulders and looking down into the flushed face, “what she has been saying to you.”  “Oh, Grandpapa!” down went Polly’s brown head, “don’t make me tell.  Please don’t, Grandpapa.”

“I shall!” declared Mr. King; “every blessed word.  Now begin!”

“She—­she wanted me to go out of the room,” said Polly, in a reluctant gasp.

“Indeed!” snorted Mr. King.  “Well, she will soon go out of that room.  Indeed, I might say, out of the house.”

“Oh, Grandpapa!” exclaimed Polly, in great distress, and raising the brown eyes—­he was dismayed to find them filling with tears—­“don’t, don’t send her away!  It is all my fault; indeed it is, Grandpapa!”

“Your fault,” cried Mr. King irately; “you must not say such things, child; that’s silly; you don’t know the woman.”

“Grandpapa,” cried Polly, holding back the storm of tears to get the words out, “I never told you—­I couldn’t—­but I said perfectly dreadful words to her a week ago.  Oh, Grandpapa!  I did, truly.”

“That’s right,” said the old gentleman in a pleased tone.  “What were they, pray tell?  Let us know.”

“Oh, Grandpapa, don’t!” begged Polly, with a shiver; “I want to forget them.”

“If you would only follow them up with more,” said Mr. King meditatively; “when it comes to tears, she must march, you know.”

“I won’t cry,” said Polly, swallowing the lump in her throat, “if you will only let her stay.”