"Fanny Vanderburgh has gone," she said, and turned quite pale.
It was too true. Mrs. Vanderburgh had sold her two tickets to the
"Flying Dutchman," to be presented that evening, and departed from
Bayreuth.
"It's no use, Polly," Fanny's note ran, "trying to make me have a good
time. Mamma says we are to go back to Paris; and go we must. You've
been lovely, and I thank you ever so much, and good-by."
Mother Fisher found Polly, a half-hour later, curled up in a corner of
the old sofa in her room, her face pressed into the cushion.
"Why, Polly," exclaimed her mother, seeing the shaking shoulders, and,
bending over her, she smoothed the brown hair gently, "this isn't
right, child--"
Polly sprang up suddenly and threw her arms around her mother's neck.
Her face was wet with tears, and she sobbed out, "Oh, if I'd done more
for her, Mamsie, or been pleasant to Mrs. Vanderburgh, she might have
stayed."
"You haven't any call to worry, Polly, child," said Mother Fisher,
firmly. "You did all that could be done--and remember one thing, it's
very wrong to trouble others as you certainly will if you give way to
your feelings in this manner."
"Mamsie," exclaimed Polly, suddenly wiping away the trail of tears from
her cheek, "I won't cry a single bit more. You can trust me, Mamsie, I
truly won't."
"Trust you," said Mother Fisher, with a proud look in her black eyes,
"I can trust you ever and always, Polly; and now run to Mr.
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