“Is it possible?” gasped Elverson, weakly.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Strong, when he could trust himself to speak again.
“I shall do what is best for Miss Polly,” said the pastor quietly but firmly.
He turned away to show that the interview was at an end. Strong followed him. Douglas pointed to the gate with a meaning not to be mistaken. “Good afternoon, deacon.”
Strong hesitated. He looked at the pastor, then at the gate, then at the pastor again. “I'll go,” he shouted; “but it ain't the end!” He slammed the gate behind him.
“Quite so, quite so,” chirped Elverson, not having the slightest idea of what he was saying. He saw the frigid expression on the pastor's face, he coughed behind his hat, and followed Strong.
Douglas dropped wearily onto the rustic bench. He sat with drooped head and unseeing eyes. He did not hear Polly as she scurried down the path, her arms filled with autumn leaves. She glanced at him, dropped the bright-coloured foliage, and slipped quickly to the nearest tree. “One, two, three for Mr. John,” she cried, as she patted the huge, brown trunk.
“Now, it's your turn to catch me,” she said, lingering near the tree. The pastor was again lost in thought. “Aren't you going to play any more?” There was a shade of disappointment in her voice. She came slowly to his side.
“Sit here, Polly,” he answered gravely, pointing to a place on the bench. “I want to talk to you.”
“Now, I've done something wrong,” she pouted. She gathered up her garlands and brought them to a place near his feet, ignoring the seat at his side. “You might just as well tell me and get it over.”
“You couldn't do anything wrong,” he answered, looking down at her.
“Oh, yes, I could--and I've done it--I can see it in your face. What is it?”
“What have you there?” he asked, trying to gain time, and not knowing how to broach the subject that in justice to her must be discussed.
“Some leaves to make garlands for the social,” Polly answered more cheerfully. “Would you mind holding this?” She gave him one end of a string of leaves.
“You like the children very much, don't you, Polly?” Douglas was striving for a path that might lead them to the subject that was troubling him.
“Oh, no, I don't LIKE them, I LOVE them.” She looked at him with tender eyes.