“Isn’t it!  If you could have told her that”—­Polly’s tone was gentle—­“it would have spared her a lot of suffering.”

“Has she so poor an opinion of her work?

“Oh, not that exactly; but”—­she smiled sadly—­“you have never said ‘thank you’, you know!”

The lines on his face deepened.  “I have been unpardonably rude, and have done Miss Twining an injustice besides—­I am sorry, very sorry!”

“She had had pretty hard experiences in giving away her books, but I persuaded her to send one to you, for I knew you liked poetry and I thought you would appreciate it.  I was sorry afterwards that I did.  It only brought her more disappointment.  She cried and cried because she did not hear from you.  I’m afraid I ought not to tell you this—­she wouldn’t let me if she knew.  But I thought if you could just write her a little note—­she isn’t allowed to see anybody—­it might do her good and help her to get well.”

“I certainly will, my dear!  I shall be glad to do so!”

“You see,” Polly went on, “she fears that perhaps you scorn her book and consider her presuming to send it to you—­and that is what hurts.  She has lain awake nights and grieved so over it, I could have cried for her!” Polly was near crying now.

“The worst of such mistakes,” the man said sorrowfully, “is that we cannot go back and blot out the tears and the suffering and make things as they might have been.  If we only could!”

“A note from you will make her very happy,” Polly smiled.

“She shall have it at once,” the minister promised; adding, “I am glad she is in so beautiful a Home.”

Polly shook her head promptly.  “No, Mr. Parcell, it is not a beautiful Home, it is a prison—­a horrible prison!”

“Why, my dear!  I do not understand—­”

“I don’t want you to understand!” Polly cried hurriedly.  “I ought not to have said that!  Only it came out!  You will know, Mr. Parcell, before long—­people shall know!  I won’t have—­oh, I mustn’t say any more!  Don’t tell a word of this, Mr. Parcell.  Promise me you won’t!”

“My dear child,”—­the man gazed at her as if he doubted her sanity,—­“tell me what the trouble is!  Perhaps I shall be able to help matters.”

“Oh, no, you can’t!  It must work out!  I am going to see Mr. Randolph as soon as—­I can.  But please promise me not to say a word about it to anybody!”

“I shall certainly repeat nothing that you have told me.  Indeed, there is little I could say; I do not understand it at all.  I supposed the June Holiday Home was a model in every respect.”

Polly shook her head sadly.

“I am there every day, Mr. Parcell, and I know!  The ladies are lovely—­most of them.  They can’t say a word, or they’d be turned out, and I’ve kept still too long!  But I mustn’t tell you any more.”  Polly drew a long breath.  “I must go now, Mr. Parcell.  I am so glad you like Miss Twining’s poems!  And you’ll forgive me, won’t you, for all I have said?”