There, side by side on the sofa, sat Aunt Jane and Mr. Solomon Baxter, looking up in surprise at the vision which had suddenly burst in upon their quiet conversation.

The children stopped abruptly, just across the threshold, and gazed in speechless horror, first at Aunt Jane and her caller, then at each other. For a moment, no one made any attempt to speak. Alan was the first to recover his senses.

"Good afternoon, Miss Roberts," he said, advancing, hat in hand, with one of his peculiarly bright, attractive smiles. "I hope we haven't disturbed you, but Polly said there wasn't anybody here."

Aunt Jane relaxed nothing of her rigidity, and Mr. Baxter answered for her, in an excited, nervous tone, while he waved his cane on which he had hung his stiff black hat, as if in grotesque imitation of his own long, lean body,--

"What in the world are you children doing, anyway, making such a noise? Polly--that's your name, isn't it?--you look as if you'd just come out of the mad-house."

In her astonishment at finding the parlor occupied, Polly had forgotten all about her remarkable gown, her ruddy countenance, and her towering headgear. Now, at the sudden recollection of it, she blushed until it was visible even under the chalk, and gave a vigorous pull, in the hope of removing her coronet, while she said penitently,--"I truly didn't know you were here, Aunt Jane. We were going to rehea.r.s.e part of the play, and--"

"That will do, Polly," interrupted Aunt Jane stonily; "you needn't say any more about it. Go and get me a gla.s.s of water. Solo--Mr.

Baxter, wouldn't you like some, too?"

"Calls him Solo--Mr. Baxter, does she!" remarked Alan, as the door closed behind the culprits. "Depend on it, Poll, there's something up in that quarter."

"I wonder if there is," said Polly. "I'm sorry for him, if it's true. But, Alan, think of our rushing in on them, looking like a pair of heathen, and that song and all! How could we!"

CHAPTER XIV.

POLLY'S DARK DAY.

The next Monday noon, Polly stood on the top of a tall step- ladder, with the hose in her hand, washing off the parlor blinds.

It was a warm, clear day, so warm that there was no possible discomfort in her work, and yet Polly was in a state of great disgust over her present employment. If it had been the back blinds, even! But to Polly, it seemed that her position on the ladder, within full view of the street, was extremely undignified, and she had protested vigorously when her mother sent her out.

"It won't take but a few minutes, Polly," Mrs. Adams had said; "and they need it badly. There's no knowing when we shall have another day that is warm enough, so run right out and do it now."

Polly went, for she dared not disobey; but she went with a frowning face, and after she had slammed the door behind her, she further freed her mind by remarking, with incautious emphasis,-- "I don't care, I think it's too mean!"

Of course Aunt Jane chanced to be pa.s.sing along through the hall, just then. She stopped directly in Polly's pathway and said, with deliberate, cutting severity,--

"Think your mamma is mean! Why, Polly Adams, I am surprised at you! I shall feel it my duty to speak to your mother about this."

Then Polly lost all self-control.

"I think you're meaner than she is!" And the outside door hanged even more loudly than the other had done.

By the time she was on the steps, Polly longed to sit down and cry. Her temples were throbbing violently, and her throat felt swollen and aching. There were days when everything seemed to go wrong, she thought desperately; she had gone to school feeling so happy, that morning, but she had torn her gown at recess, and had failed in her history lesson, and now she must go out and wash those hateful old blinds. Well, some day when she was all nicely dead of overwork and too many scoldings, she knew they'd be sorry.

Who the _they_ in question were, she did not stop to a.n.a.lyze, but, forcing back the angry tears, she went away in search of the step-ladder. Soon she returned, dragging it after her and b.u.mping it with unnecessary force against all the trees and corners of the house in her way, and, planting it in position, she slowly mounted to the top, hose in hand. She was just balanced up there, when she saw Alan come in through the gate.

"Hullo! What you up to, Poll?" he called.

"I should think you might be able to see for yourself," replied Polly, with dignity.

Alan surveyed her in astonishment, then asked,--

"Can't I help you?"

"No!" snapped Polly shortly.

The boy gave a long, low whistle, the meaning of which was so obvious as to be anything but soothing to Polly's ruffled feelings.

"Got a pain in your temper? Didn't you sleep well last night?" he inquired, with mock sympathy.

Polly vouchsafed no reply.

"Perhaps you lay awake to write another poem," he went on. "How was it, it went: 'The children went chestnutting--'?"

What unlucky chance had implanted in Alan's mind the spirit of teasing, and in Polly's, at the same moment, the spirit of perversity? What ever was the cause, the result was the same; and Polly, in her present mood, could not endure this slighting reference to her poem which she had fondly imagined was a secret between Molly and herself. Her face grew white to the very lips, as she faced the lad below.

"Alan Hapgood!" she exclaimed; "what right have you to say so? If you don't keep still, I'll turn the water on you."

"All right," said the boy composedly, never dreaming how excited she really was; "fire ahead, if 'twill give you any satisfaction.

I suppose poets are always rather peppery."

The next instant, the strong, full jet of icy cold water struck him directly in the chest. Polly's aim was accurate, the force of the water great, so a few seconds had drenched the boy from his neck to his shoes. How long it might have lasted was uncertain, but a hasty misstep sent Polly head foremost to the ground, where she lay for an instant, stunned by her fall. Unmindful of his wetting, Alan ran to her side.

"Polly, are you hurt? Where is it?" he exclaimed.

But Polly sprang up fiercely.

"Go away, Alan! You needn't come here again till I send for you."

And she ran into the house, and up to the safe refuge of her own room.

Once there, in quiet and alone, she quickly came to her senses and realized, with a horrible fear, all that she had done, all that it might yet do. It was her first serious quarrel with Alan, and for such a little cause she had turned upon her favorite companion.

And then, with his rheumatism, what effect would the wetting have on him? Filled with this unbearable anxiety, she submitted to her mother's reproof for her words to Aunt Jane, without making any attempt to excuse herself, and silently left the house, without telling the secret of her last, worst outbreak. Lessons had begun, when she entered the schoolroom, and as she seated herself, she stole a quick glance at Alan's place. It was vacant.

She had no opportunity to see Molly alone, that afternoon, and no mention of Alan was made. After school, she walked quickly home without waiting for the girls, and taking up a book, she sat for an hour, not speaking, not reading a word, but with her eyes fixed on the roof of the Hapgood house, going over and over the scenes of the noon, longing to run to Alan and beg his forgiveness, yet too proud to do so, so soon. How she wanted to tell her mother the whole story, and ask her how to undo the harm she had done! But she dreaded to see her mother's shocked, pained face, so she held her peace. The long hours till bedtime slowly dragged away, and for once Polly went up-stairs without her usual goodnight talk.

But, for some reason, sleep would not come to her, even then.

Instead of that, she lay with wide-open eyes, staring into the darkness and picturing Alan as she saw him turn away, with the cold water dripping from his clothing. Suddenly she heard the bell ring sharply, violently. Springing out of bed, she stole noiselessly to the head of the stairs to listen, sure that it was a message of bad news. She was not mistaken, for she heard Molly's voice saying hurriedly,--

"Can Dr. Adams come right away? Alan is terribly ill."

Yes, he was ill, and perhaps he was going to die, and she had done it! Polly fled desperately back to bed and, pulling the blankets tightly over her head to smother the sound, she burst out crying as she had never before cried, in her life, crying with shame for herself and sorrow for her boy friend.

As soon as her first outburst was over, she raised herself on her elbow and strained her ears to listen for the sound of her father's return, convinced that he must and would bring good news.

It was nothing serious, she reasoned, they were unnecessarily alarmed, for it would be too unjust for Alan to be ill, when she alone had been the one to blame.

It was long that her father was gone. A dozen times Polly had been sure that she heard his steps, but the moments dragged on and on, without bringing him. At length the door opened and he entered.

Polly was out of bed in an instant and crouching at the head of the stairs, shivering with cold and fear, while she waited to hear his first words to her mother. She thought he would never get his coat off and go into the parlor. When he did, she heard something that seemed to stop her breath.

"I've only just pulled Alan through, to-night," the doctor was saying to his wife. "When I went in, I thought there wasn't much chance for him; but the worst is over, for the present."

"What was it?" asked his wife anxiously.