"Oh, come, my dear, don't be hard on a chap because he's a little late!"
"It isn't that, really," defended the girl, a swift red flaming into her cheeks. "I mean—I'm not going."
"Nonsense!" The man stopped smiling. He spoke sharply. "You said yesterday you'd go."
"I know; but I've changed my mind. I told my little friend here—I'd stay with her."
"Oh, but if you'd rather go with this nice young gentleman," began Pollyanna, anxiously; but she fell back silenced at the look the girl gave her.
"I tell you I had not rather go. I'm not going."
"And, pray, why this sudden right-about face?" demanded the young man with an expression that made him suddenly look, to Pollyanna, not quite so handsome. "Yesterday you said—"
"I know I did," interrupted the girl, feverishly. "But I knew then that I hadn't ought to. Let's call it—that I know it even better now. That's all." And she turned away resolutely.
It was not all. The man spoke again, twice. He coaxed, then he sneered with a hateful look in his eyes. At last he said something very low and angry, which Pollyanna did not understand. The next moment he wheeled about and strode away.
The girl watched him tensely till he passed quite out of sight, then, relaxing, she laid a shaking hand on Pollyanna's arm.
"Thanks, kiddie. I reckon I owe you—more than you know. Good-by."
