"It's all right, if you want them; but I guess I'll go home. I thought there'd be something besides just games."

She turned towards the staircase, yet lingered.

"I'm sorry you don't like it," Polly replied simply. "I'll play anything you wish."

"No, I'm going."

She tossed her head, and took a step upward.

Polly was in terror lest somebody should overhear, for Ilga's voice was sharp with excitement.

"I'll stay and play with the school boys and girls," the dissatisfied guest yielded.

"But I can't separate them," Polly protested in dismay.

"Then I'll go home," Ilga decided, and went slowly up the stairs.

Polly followed sadly, but presently returned, having given over to her mother the care of the Senator's daughter.

Leonora ran to meet her. "What is the matter?" she whispered.

"I know!" spoke up Cornelius. "She don't like the crowd. I had to hear what she said about me. Say, Polly, I'll get out, if that'll make her stay."

"You shan't!" Polly's eyes flashed. Then they brimmed with tears. "I want you, Cornelius—I want you all! I wouldn't have you go for anything! Come, let's play—what shall we play? You choose, Cornelius!"

The game was moving pleasantly along when the Barron coach stopped at the door. For a few minutes the interest of the players flagged; then, having seen Ilga whirled out of sight, a festive spirit fell upon all, and the play went on more merrily than before.

Game followed game, and mirth was high, when Elsie Meyer, out for a forfeit, suddenly cried:—

"Oh, me! oh, my! the fairies have come!"

This was enough to halt the others, and the glimpse of a white-and-gold automobile drew the little crowd to the front windows.

Wonder and delight were on the children's faces, as they watched the motorists alight. The dapper man and the slight little woman were given small attention, for in the car were two of the tiniest, dearest midgets that anybody had ever seen. As soon as it was known that they were actually coming into the house, the excitement was great.

"Do you s'pose they're real fairies?" questioned Brida McCarthy eagerly.

Nobody could answer. In fact, just at the moment, words were scarce. Interest was centred on the visitors that were coming up the front steps. The glimpses of the beautiful little creatures as they passed the curtained doorway increased the children's curiosity, and, during the brief time devoted to the removal of wraps, tongues ran lively. The wild surmises came to a sudden halt when the tiny boy and girl appeared bowing and curtsying, being presented to the company as "Their Royal Highnesses, Prince Lucio and Princess Chiara."

The brother and sister at once proceeded to give a unique performance in song, dance, and pantomime, until the young guests were beside themselves with delight.

After this entertainment came the wonderful party tea, arranged and served in Mrs. Jocelyn's happiest style, with eleven little candle-girls atop of the birthday cake, and ice cream in the form of fairies.

When everybody was stuffed with good things, the dainty Prince and Princess remained for an hour to play with the other children, "just like real folks," as Elsie Meyer declared.

The last game of hide-and-seek came to a merry end, with the finding of the roguish little Princess, who was only eighteen inches tall, curled up snugly back of a small flower pot, inside of a jardiniere. Then the girls and boys bade good-bye to their royal companions, and the guests were all sent home in the beautiful Jocelyn carriage. The stately grays had to make a good many trips before the Intermediate Birthday Party was really over; but the last load was finally driven away, jubilant voices sounding back through the dusk after the children had passed from sight.

"It was just lovely, from beginning to end," breathed Leonora.

Ilga Barron was quite forgotten.



CHAPTER IX

THE EIGHTH ROSE

On the morning after the party Polly was early downstairs.

Breakfast not being quite ready, she filled up the time by giving fresh water to her birthday roses.

"You are going to the hospital to-day," she told them, as she clipped the ends of the stems and broke off two or three great thorns. "That is, most of you," she amended. "Let me see, you, and you, and you," she decided, laying aside three big beauties. Their number was doubled, and then she hesitated.

"Mother, you wouldn't keep more than three, would you?"

Mrs. Dudley looked up from the grapefruit she was cutting.

"That is a good number to look at," she smiled.

"So I think," Polly agreed; "but they can have only one apiece over at the hospital. One alone is pretty, though," she mused. "I'd leave only one for us, but if Leonora should come, she might be afraid I didn't care for them. No, I think eight will have to do, and it will be better to give to those that have to lie abed, won't it?"

Only waiting for her mother's approval, she went on:—

"There's Reva and Ottoine and Mary up in the children's ward, and old Mrs. Zieminski, and that funny little Magdalene, and Gustav and Miss Butler—that makes seven," counting them slowly on her fingers. "I don't know who I will give the eighth to—there are plenty of folks, only I'm not acquainted with them. Never mind, anybody'll be glad of one of these lovelicious roses, and I'll see when I get there."

"How does it feel to be eleven?" broke in the Doctor's happy voice.

"Why, I was eleven day before yesterday," laughed Polly. "I've had time to get used to it."

"But that was a birthday, and yesterday was a party day; it is when you get back to the everydayness that you begin to feel things."

"It isn't a bit different from ten," she declared. "Yes, a little, because I have all these roses to give away. Aren't they sweet?" She held them up for her father to sniff.

"Come to breakfast!" was the gentle command from the dining-room, and Polly skipped on ahead, cautioning the Doctor to be sure not to spill the water from the vase with which she had entrusted him.

The hour before school found Polly and the pink roses on their way to the big white house. Having the freedom of the hospital almost as much as Dr. Dudley himself, she flitted in and out whenever she chose, never in anybody's way, and greeted with smiles from nurses and patients.

Her errand this morning carried her first to the children's convalescent ward, where she was so eagerly seized upon that she escaped only by pleading her additional flowers to distribute, and school time not far away.

With the eighth rose still in her hand, and debating whether to carry it up to the children, or to give it to a boy in the surgical ward with whom she had once spoken, she passed a half-open door on one of the private-room corridors.

Glancing inside, she saw a young man, with bandaged eyes, lying on a couch. He was quite alone, and his mouth looked sad.

"I wonder if he would like it," she questioned, and a breath of fragrance from the half-blown rose answered her. "He can smell it, even if he can't see it," she thought, and stepped inside the room.

The man turned his head.

"Would you like one of my birthday roses?" she asked. "It is very sweet." She put it in his hand.

"I thank you, indeed." The sad lips smiled. "This is quite outside of my programme. In fact, I had almost forgotten there were such pleasant times as birthdays."

"It was day before yesterday," she ventured.

"And I judge by your voice that the number of roses needed was not large."

She laughed softly. "Only eleven."

"About as I guessed! I hope the rest of the birthday matched the roses. This is very beautiful." His fingers gave it a caressing touch.

"Oh, I had a lovelicious birthday! I really had two of them!"

"Two? That sounds interesting. Can't you sit down here and tell me about it?"

"If I wouldn't be late to school," she hesitated. "I don't know what time it is."

He pulled a watch from his pocket, and held it up for her view.

"Oh, I've twenty-seven minutes! I can stay a little while."

She took the chair beside him, and recounted the story of the intermediate entertainment, intuitively omitting the part which Ilga played. That it was appreciated by her listener Polly could not doubt.

"You must come and see me again," he invited, as she rose to go. "I think you may do me more good than the Doctor."

"Oh, no!" she objected softly; "I couldn't do anything better than father! He cures everybody."

The young man smiled doubtfully.

"May I ask who 'father' is? Not Dr. Dudley?"

"Why, yes, sir. I s'posed you knew. I'm Polly Dudley, Dr. Dudley's little girl."

"Are you! Well, Miss Polly, I am surely glad to have made your acquaintance." He ran hurriedly through his pockets. "I had a card somewhere. Probably it was seized with the rest of my belongings. That seems to be a way they have at hospitals—hide a man's things so he can't get at them! Never mind, I haven't forgotten my name. I am Floyd Westwood of New York."

"That's a lovelicious name," Polly told him frankly.

The corners of his mouth curled up.

"I hope you will not fail to come often," he told her, as she put her little hand in his for good-bye.

"Oh, I'll come!" she promised. "But it's father that will cure you."

"I hope so, but," he added soberly, "it doesn't look much like it at present."

Polly's eyes went troubled.

Perhaps the other read her silence, for he said brightly:—

"Now that I know the Doctor's little girl, it may be I shall have more confidence in the Doctor's assurances."

"Oh, if he says you'll get well," she laughed, "you needn't worry a single mite! Father doesn't ever lie to people."

"That sounds pleasant and mighty reassuring. I am glad you came in. I was getting blue."

"Perhaps you were 'scared,' like Magdalene," she chuckled. "I do wish you could see her! She is the funniest little German girl! She had appendicitis, and the doctors sent for father. He knew right off she couldn't live without an operation, and he told her father and mother, and then he went and talked to her. He didn't tell her she'd die, for she's only six years old; but he said she couldn't ever go out to play, or have any more good times, unless they took her to the hospital to cure her. And she looked up at him, just as sober, and said, 'I'm scared! I'm scared!'—not a thing else! They brought her up here in the ambulance, and she never said a word all the way. But when she got downstairs, where there were lots of doctors and nurses, father happened to go near her, and she looked straight up into his face, and said, 'I'm scared! I'm scared!' Poor little thing! I should think she would have been; but she is so funny."

"Did she come out all right?"

"Oh, yes, of course!—father performed the operation. The next day when he saw her she was looking as happy as could be, and he asked her if she was scared, and she didn't speak, only just shook her head this way, and grinned." Polly's curls waved vigorously. "After a few days she grew worse, and they had a consultation, and three or four doctors were there. Father thought she looked frightened, and he asked her if she was scared, and she bowed her head hard—oh, she is so funny! I just carried her one of my roses, and I'm sure she liked it, but she didn't say a single word."

"I have a fellow-feeling for that little girl," smiled Mr. Westwood. "I know all right what it is to be 'scared,' and it isn't pleasant."

As Polly's lips parted for a response, her eyes fell upon the watch which the young man was still fingering.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed, "I forgot all about school! Good-bye!" And she flashed away.

At dinner she told where she had left her eighth rose.

"I am glad you happened in there," returned the Doctor. "He seems to be a fine young fellow, a chemist, just out of college. He came up from New York to see a friend, and while he was assisting with some chemical work he was temporarily blinded by an explosion. He is coming on all right; but for a few days I have noticed that he has seemed rather gloomy. Go again! You will do him good."

Several times during the next week Polly obeyed her father's injunction, and accepted Mr. Westwood's repeated invitations. With every visit the two became better friends, and Polly waited almost as eagerly as the patient himself for the day when his bandaged eyes should be released. Only in Polly's heart there was not a little regret mingled with her anticipated joy, for that would herald Mr. Westwood's going away. Still she would not let the disturbing thought detract from her present pleasure, and she ran in and out of the young man's room in a happy, quite-at-home fashion.

She was starting for one of these little visits, when her mother called to her.

"I wish you would go down to Besse and Drayton's, and get me a yard more of this ribbon," she requested; "I find I haven't enough." She held out a bit of blue satin.

"I'll be back with it in a jiffy—a ten-minute jiffy," laughed Polly.

Off she flew, tripping down the street and around the corner so briskly that she nearly ran into a little man who was proceeding at a quick, heedless pace.

"Why, Mr. Bean!" she cried.

"I declare, if 'tain't Polly! little Polly! How do you do, my dear? How do you do?"

As soon as Mr. Bean learned that Polly was on her way down to the department store, he turned about, and walked along by her side, listening delightedly to her happy chatter.

"I'm proper sorry I hain't found that letter yit," he mourned. "Jane she's been kind o' upset 'n' cranky lately, or I should 'a' asked her about it before. I guess I shall speak about it to-night, yis, I guess I shall," he assured Polly and himself.

"Oh, don't hurry to do it right away!" Polly responded understandingly. "I can wait to know about my relatives. If Aunt Jane isn't feeling—quite well, it wouldn't be a good time."

"No, 'twouldn't," he agreed in a relieved tone. "But I'll have it for yer soon's I see my way to it. Sometime when Jane's feelin' real good, I'll broach the subjec', I certain will."

Home with her ribbon and then over to the hospital sped Polly. She found her friend impatiently striding up and down the limited space of his room.

"I'd about given you up," he told her in an aggrieved tone. "I concluded you were tired of coming to be eyes for a poor old blind fellow like me, and so had stayed after school to play."

Polly looked at him keenly. Sometimes she did not quite know whether to take him in fun or in earnest. Now his face was serious; but she felt almost sure there was a twinkle behind that tantalizing bandage.

"You know I couldn't be tired of coming to see you," she said simply, "and I never stay to play after school. I went on an errand for mother, and then I met Mr. Bean, and he stopped to apologize for not finding a letter that is—lost, a letter about my May relatives."

"What!" His tone startled Polly. "Are you related to the Mays? how? Tell me!" He was waiting with eager, parted lips.

"Why," she hesitated, vaguely abashed all at once, "I'm Polly May, you know—or was. I guess I haven't told you." Polly never talked of her adoption, instinctively guarding as a precious secret what was naturally well known throughout the city.

"No, you haven't; but won't you tell me now, please?"

"Father and mother adopted me the day they were married," she explained simply. "Papa and mamma were dead, and I didn't belong to Aunt Jane or anybody."

"Polly, who was your father—your own father?" The words tumbled close on the heels of her sentence.

"Chester May," she answered dazedly. Something was imminent. She knew not what.

"Chester May! And your mother's name? Was it Illingworth? Phebe Illingworth?" The words shot like bullets.

"Why, yes!" gasped Polly. "How did you know?"

"Polly! Polly!" He thrust out his hands—they touched Polly's, which he caught in a strong grip. "My mother was your father's sister, his eldest sister! We are cousins, Polly, own cousins!"

Dr. Dudley came, with the nurse, before the story was ended, and then it had to be begun and told all over again,—the old, old story of a quarrel between the father and the "baby" of his family, of the hasty leaving home of the boy, of the meagre news of his early marriage, and lastly of the years that were empty of tidings. These Polly was able to fill up in part, when the story-teller turned listener, with interest almost as great as Polly's own.

Floyd Westwood begged the physician to allow him one little glimpse of his new-found cousin; but Dr. Dudley was firm, and the eager eyes were not uncovered. Polly soon slipped away to share her joy with her mother, leaving the Doctor and his patient to talk over present plans and future possibilities.



CHAPTER X

A VISIT FROM ERASTUS BEAN

It was yet early the next evening, soon after Dr. Dudley had gone for his usual round at the hospital, that Polly answered the doorbell to return with Erastus Bean.

Delight laughed from the little man's weathered face.

"There 'tis, my dear! there 'tis!" he chuckled, carefully drawing a folded paper from an inner pocket. He put it in Polly's hand with an impressive bow. "I hope it will make yer a millionaire," he wished, "yis, I do!"

Polly thanked him, fingering the letter in a somewhat awed way, but not at all as if she were in a hurry to discover her chances towards millionairedom. Meantime Mrs. Dudley was seating the little man in the easiest chair.

Settling himself comfortably, with a profusion of acknowledgments, he rubbed his lean hands together with a reminiscent smile.

"I took Jane ridin' in a autymobile this afternoon!" he announced.

"You did?" Polly burst out.

"Sure thing!" he beamed. "Jane she's been a-wishin' an' a-wishin' she could go skylarkin' off like other folks, an' when that autymobile driv' up this afternoon, you'd oughter seen her eyes! It was a stylish one, I tell yer! An' we went bouncin' up an' down like the best of 'em! Jane she says it was full as good's a weddin' trip!"

He was silent a moment, smiling at the remembrance.

"I'm so glad you had such a nice ride," purred Polly.

"It was proper nice," he agreed. "Yer see," falling into a confidential tone, "I couldn't make out no surer way to git hold o' that letter. Jane she's kind o' cranky sometimes, but she's got her good streaks, and you can coax her into 'most anything. Now when we was whirlin' along there through Cat-hole Pass, on that slick road, I just broached the subjec'. Couldn't 'a' picked out a better minute nohow! She chimed right in, and said 'twas time yer had it, if yer was ever goin' to—an' there it is!" He chuckled like a boy over his bit of stratagem.

"Hadn't yer better look at it, my dear," he proposed, "just to make certain it's all right?" Eager that his service should bring her joy, he was anxious to see its consummation.

Polly, still dimpling with amusement over Mr. Bean's management of Aunt Jane, unfolded the sheet. One glance at the closely-written first page, the smiles vanished, her cheeks went white, and, drooping her head, she wailed out:—

"Mamma! mamma! Oh, mamma, I want you!"

Mrs. Dudley sprang to comfort her, but the little man was there first. Gathering Polly tenderly in his arms, he crooned over her like a mother.

"There! there! my dear! There, dearie! I know! I know! It's hard! I felt just that way when Susie went. There! cry right on my shoulder—it'll do you good. There, dearie! Pretty soon I'll tell you something. There! there!"

The tones were soft and soothing. Mrs. Dudley could barely make out the words. Soon the sobbing ceased.

"I didn't know the letter was from her," Polly broke out plaintively. "That's what she used to call me—'Polly Precious'—oh, de-e-ar!"

"There! there! I know! I know! It's hard, awful hard! I know!"

She lay back on his shoulder again, and presently was more calm.

"Now I'm goin' to tell you something," the little man resumed. "After Susie went, I just couldn't stand it without her—she was all I had. Her mother'd gone two years before. An' I got to thinkin' 'bout Susie, an' how she'd always tag me round, from cellar to attic, goin' with me fur's I'd let her when I went to work, and runnin' to meet me when I come home. And thinks I, 'S'pose Susie's goin' to stay up in Heaven away from me? No, sir! She's taggin' me round just the same as ever! I can't see her, but she's right here!' An' she has been! I couldn't 'a' stood it no other way! An' Susie couldn't! The good God knows how much we c'n stand, and he eases things up for us.

"Now, my dear, it's just so with your mother. She loves you more—yis, more—than you do her, an' do you think she stays away from you? Why, no, dearie, she's right here, takin' care o' you all the time!"

"Oh! do you really s'pose that?" cried Polly joyously.

"My dear, my dear!" the little man's voice was tense with feeling, "I don't s'pose—I know! Ther' 's nothin' in all God's universe so strong as love, and so what is there to keep love away from us? For, of course, our folks don't stop lovin' us. They're just the same, here or there.

"I don't very often tell people how I feel, for once I got caught. A woman thought sure I was a spiritu'list, and wanted to bring me a message from Susie. But I told her, 'Now, Susie and I git on all right together without talkin', and if she's got anything to say to me that I can understand she'll say it right to me, and not to somebody she's never seen or heard of. No, ma'am,' I says, 'I know Susie better 'n you do!' So since then I've kep' pretty whist about Susie; but she's a mighty comfort to me every day o' my life."

Polly sat quite still in the little man's arms, her head leaning confidingly against the shiny, well-brushed coat. Her eyes were lustrous with the new, beautiful thought. Could it be really true? She was going to believe so! Presently she was smiling again, and she read that portion of her letter which gave the addresses of her father's relatives. She told Mr. Bean all about the wonderful discovery of Floyd Westwood through a birthday rose, and found that an address in the letter was identical with one which her cousin had given her. She began to feel the pleasant reality of kinsfolk, and when the little man went home she waved him a happy good-night from the piazza, quite as if there were no such things as tears.



CHAPTER XI

UNCLE MAURICE AT LADY GAY COTTAGE

"You can't live in Lady Gay Cottage much longer!"

This exulting announcement greeted Polly as she entered the schoolroom.

She looked at Ilga Barron with puzzled eyes.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Just what I say," answered Ilga. "She can't; can she, Gustave?"

The boy at her side Polly had never spoken with, but now she turned to him inquiringly. He had been in school only two days, having but recently returned with his parents from a long stay abroad.

"She's right," he asserted, addressing himself to Polly. "Father's going to sell the place."

"Oh! is that what you call our house?" queried Polly, beginning to understand. "Does your father own it?"

Gustave nodded. "Mother named it from the Lady Gay roses on the piazzas," he explained. "Wait till June, and you'll see!"

"I remember them last summer," Polly smiled. "They were lovely—all pink and white, but I didn't know their name."

"You'll have to go back to the hospital to live, shan't you?" questioned Ilga curiously.

"I don't know," Polly answered. Her face held a bit of anxiety as she moved away.

This piece of news was the foremost topic at the Dudley dinner-table. Polly saw that her father and mother were disturbed by it. Although the Doctor made little jests, the laughter sometimes seemed forced, and occasionally talk would flag. There was no other rented house in the neighborhood, and Dr. Dudley must live in the immediate vicinity of the hospital to retain his position there. This Polly gathered from what passed between her father and mother, and she returned to school in no mood for study or play. Later a thought came which she felt sure would solve the problem. It was not until after tea that she made the proposition.

"Father," she began, atilt on the arm of his chair, "should you like to buy this house yourself?"

"Possibly, if I had plenty of money; but what little I have is tied up where I can't get at it conveniently."

"Oh, then you can buy it right away!" Polly cried gleefully. "You can take my two thousand dollars! Won't that be enough?"

Dr. Dudley's lips set themselves firmly, and he shook his head.

"No, Thistledown, I cannot touch your money. Don't you remember, I told you it must stay where it is until you are of age?"

"Oh, but this is different!" she urged. "Please take it—do!"

Her entreaties, however, could not prevail against the Doctor's judgment.

"What shall we do, then?" she complained.

"Keep still for the present," he laughed. "The house isn't sold yet, perhaps won't be. Don't worry over it, Thistledown! There will be some way out, and a good way, too. Your Cousin Floyd told me to-night that the Royal is due to-morrow. You know that is the steamer his father sailed on, so you may expect to see your uncle by Friday. Floyd thinks he will come up at once."

"I shall like him if he is as nice as Floyd," returned Polly thoughtfully.

Dr. Dudley said nothing. He was weighing love and legal rights against wealth and near kinship. The balance did not appear to be in his favor.

On Thursday Polly was thrown into a pleasant excitement by the telephone message that came to Dr. Dudley. Uncle Maurice Westwood was in New York, and would motor up to Fair Harbor the next morning, to see his son and his new niece.

"I shall have to stay home from school, shan't I?" Polly questioned eagerly.

"I think not," was the quiet answer. "It is uncertain what time he will come, so things had better go on as usual."

"But what if he should go back before I got home?" worried Polly.

Mrs. Dudley laughed. "No danger of that! Don't you think your uncle will be as anxious to see you as you are to see him?"

"Maybe," she replied doubtfully.

She felt that so unusual an occasion called for her best dress and a stately waiting for the visitor, instead of going to school in her common frock just as on ordinary days when nothing happened. But she made no further objection, joining David on the front walk, and telling him that "Uncle Maurice" was actually coming.

Returning at noon, Polly ran nearly all the way, so eager was she to see if her uncle's car were in front of the house. To her disappointment the only vehicle in sight was a grocer's team at Colonel Gresham's side gate.

"I'm afraid he's gone," she lamented under her breath; yet she hurried round to the kitchen door, and was relieved of her fear by hearing voices in the living-room, her mother's and a deeper one that she did not know.

Uncle Maurice looked a little as Polly had pictured, patterning him by his young son; but she had not made sufficient allowance for years, and he was older and very much bigger than she had imagined he would be. His smile was pleasant, like Floyd's, and his greeting cordial and even fatherly. When Dr. Dudley came in he found her chatting familiarly upon her uncle's knee.

It was not until after dinner that Mr. Westwood spoke of Polly's future. Then his first sentence almost caught away her breath.

"Well, Doctor, I suppose you are going to give this little girl to me."

"It will be as Polly says," replied the physician, with a grave smile.

He did not look at Polly, who sat in a low chair near by; but she turned to him with an exclamation on her lips. It was arrested, however, by her uncle's response.

"It surely seems to be the only way to fix matters. To begin with, she is my brother-in-law's daughter, and it doesn't seem fair to have her out of the family. If my wife were living she would never hear to such a thing, and Floyd wishes her to come to us as much as I do. She will have a mother in my sister, who has kept house for me the last three years, and I can give her every advantage that a girl should have. Of course, she can visit you occasionally, and we shall always be glad to see you in our New York home or in California. I bought a place down on the Pacific Coast, some six years ago, and I have kept adding to it until I have quite a ranch. It gives us an ideal home for the coldest weather, though this last winter we made only a flying trip there. Business called me across the water, and Floyd would rather dabble in chemicals, and incidentally put his eyes out, than do anything worth while. He doesn't take to manufacturing. Wish he did! My two younger boys, Harold and Julian, I put in a military school last fall, and they're having a dandy time. They will be home soon for their spring vacation, and then Polly can make their acquaintance. They are fine little fellows. Julian is captain of the junior football team, but Harold doesn't go in for athletics. You'll find him curled up with a book at almost any hour. Let's see—he must be about your age. How old did you tell me you are?"

Polly, thus addressed, murmured, "Eleven"; but only her lips moved. It was as if an automaton spoke.

Mrs. Dudley, glancing that way, was startled.

The soft brown eyes were wide and brilliant, and a scarlet spot on either cheek lighted the pallid face. Polly was gazing at her uncle as if held by some strange power.

"He is only ten," Mr. Westwood was saying. "Julian is fourteen. But there isn't difference enough to matter. You three will get on admirably together.

"Better let her go back with me," he went on, turning to the Doctor. "Mrs. Calhoun, my sister, will fix her out in the way of clothes. You can buy anything in New York, from a shoestring to—"

Nobody heard the end of that sentence, for, with a leap, Polly had the floor. Her eyes flashed, and her voice was tense with anger and determination.

"Uncle Maurice," she cried, "I s'pose you mean all right; but I guess my mother knows how to get my clothes just as well as anybody, and you needn't think I'm going to New York, you needn't think so a single second! Why, I wouldn't leave father and mother for a million dollars! I wouldn't go for ten million dollars!"

"Well, Miss Highflier!" Mr. Westwood threw back his head in a chuckling laugh. "Some spirit in that little frame of yours! Shouldn't wonder if you took after your father. Chester was a fiery boy. Now, come here, and let me tell you something."

Polly's head went up defiantly. "I'm not going!" she insisted. "You needn't think you can coax me into it! You can't!"

"Polly!" The Doctor's voice was gently admonitive.

"Excuse me," she apologized. "I didn't mean to be impolite. But I shan't go!" She moved obediently towards her uncle, and he placed her on his knee, where she sat, submissive but alert.

"I want to tell you what a splendid time you'll have with us," he began.

"Other folks have tried to buy me," remarked Polly.

"Have they, indeed! It is a good thing to be marketable," with a whimsical glance towards the Doctor.

"I don't like it," returned Polly.

"Well, you won't have any more such trouble after you come to New York."

Polly was silent, but her lips were set, and her eyes grew ominously dark.

"Now, in the first place, you shall have anything in the world you wish,—dolls, toys, and a playroom to keep them in, and a whole library of story-books. Then parties—whew, you ought to see what parties Julian and Harold have! They'd make you open your eyes with envy!"

"Mrs. Jocelyn gave me a beautiful birthday party," responded Polly with dignity.

"Ah? But it wasn't a New York party. You don't know what kind of parties we get up in New York. Why, the flowers for the boys' last affair cost two hundred dollars!"

Polly gazed down at the rug, and followed the intricate lines of the pattern.

"Then you shall have the handsomest pink silk party dress we can find in the city, all fixed up with white lace—real lace, mind you! What do you think of that?"

"I don't want a pink silk party dress!" scorned Polly. "I have one already."

"Ah?" Mr. Westwood looked a bit disconcerted.

"I will buy you a Shetland pony," he resumed, "the very best one we can find, and you shall take riding-lessons with the boys. I'll see that you have the choosing of your riding-suit, any color and style you like."

Polly's eyes showed mild interest, and her uncle proceeded.

"I saw a pony awhile ago that I think I can get for you. He is high-priced, but I guess he's worth it. Such a pretty creature! He ate bread and butter and sugar out of my hand."

"That's what Lone Star does!" brightened Polly. "Lone Star is Colonel Gresham's beautiful trotter."

"I think I've heard of him," observed Mr. Westwood.

"Have you?" Polly cried. "Oh, I wish you could see him! He is the most lovelicious horse!"

Her uncle laughed. "Well, you can have one just as 'lovelicious' as he is, a second Lone Star, if you like. Oh, how you will love your pony!"

"I am not going to have any pony!" was the resolute announcement.

"Oh, yes, you are!" he wheedled. "And we'll take him with us when we go to our summer home up the Hudson River. Such a fine time you and the boys will have cantering over the country roads!"

For an instant Polly's eyes sparkled over the picture. Then she came back.

"Uncle Maurice," she declared, "there isn't a bit of use in your trying to make me want to go and live with you! I wouldn't leave father and mother for a hundred thousand ponies and parties and pink dresses and everything!" She slid from her uncle's arm, and ran over to the Doctor, where she hid her face on his shoulder, breaking into soft sobs.

Mrs. Dudley drew her gently away and upstairs. She ended her cry on her mother's breast.

When she was called down to bid her uncle good-bye, no mention was made of the subject which had brought the tears, and she thanked him very sweetly for his invitation to visit them sometime in the near future. Yet she watched him drive away in his handsome motor-car with a feeling of relief, and her wave of farewell was accompanied by a radiant smile.



CHAPTER XII

LITTLE CHRIS

Polly dreaded the next meeting with her Cousin Floyd, for she anticipated his disappointment at her decision. But he took the news cheerfully.

"Just wait till we get you down to our house!" he laughed. "We'll give you so good a time you'll forget there ever was a Fair Harbor."

Polly smiled contentedly. This was so much pleasanter than her uncle's insistence.

Yet when his eyes were free to look upon her, his gayety vanished.

"So like my mother!" he murmured. "Not the eyes,—hers were blue,—but the mouth and the expression of the face—yes, and the forehead!—they are mother's right over again!" His lips drooped sorrowfully. "You bring her back to me better than a picture. It is a shame," he regretted, "when you belong to us, that we can't have you under our roof!"

"I'm sorry," Polly sighed. "I wish I could be in two places."

"One would be quite enough," laughed Floyd, "if only that were New York. Oh, come on, Polly! We'll have no end of a good time."

She shook her head slowly, the red fluttering on her cheeks. "I can't," she told him; "truly I can't!"

"All right," he responded, and touched the subject no more; yet Polly was troubled at the seriousness of his face. Finding relatives was not complete joy after all.

The good-byes, which came soon, brought no further word from him in regard to her decision; but he urged an early visit, to which Polly and her parents agreed.

The taxicab that carried Floyd and his luggage to the station was barely out of sight when Polly spied a familiar little figure on the hospital walk.

"There's Moses Cohn!" she cried. "I wonder what he is coming for."

"Hullo, Polly!" was the friendly call, the freckled face under the shabby hat shining with delight.

She waved him a welcome, dancing about in the cold of the morning until he came up. They went inside together, Moses eagerly unfolding his errand.

"I've been tellin' a kid 'bout Dr. Dudley and you," he began. "He's sick, awful sick, and his father wouldn't have no doctor, and Chris he keeps a-growin' worser 'n worser. So I said how Dr. Dudley could cure him quicker 'n lightnin', and I guess he'll bring him up—he 'most promised."

"It might be better for me to see him first," observed the physician.

"No, sir! he said 'xpressly for you not to come!"

"Then I can send the ambulance—"

"No, he don't want that neither! He's goin' to bring him right in his arms. Why, I could myself—easy! He's the littlest kid, an' han'some! My, he's a beaut! Jus' wait till you see him! He ain't but nine years old. He goes to my school, or did before he was sick. His father's got the money—you bet! An' my! he thinks that kid's it! He is, too! I guess they'll be here pretty soon—he 'most promised."

On the strength of Moses Cohn's story, Dr. Dudley ordered a bed to be prepared for the probable patient; but he did not arrive until evening and Polly had given up his coming. Then the father insisted on a private room for his little son, remaining himself to see that everything was provided for his comfort.

"Good-bye, Chris! Keep up a big bluff! Daddy'll be here in the morning sure!" That was what the attending nurse overheard of the parting. A minute after the door had shut, she discovered her little patient shedding silent tears for "daddy"; but he brightened quickly at her cheering words, and soon dropped into a quiet sleep.

Polly was anxious to see the boy of whom Moses had told her, but the slow fever from which he was suffering kept him a stranger for many days. When, at last, she was allowed to pay him a visit, even Moses' description of his friend had not prepared her for the beautiful wisp of a lad with the sky-blue eyes and the red-gold hair. Polly thought she had never seen so lovely a face. Her smile brought a shy response from the pillow, though talk did not at once flourish.

"Father says you are better," Polly ventured.

Only a wee nod answered her.

"I've been wanting to come in before," she persevered. "Moses Cohn told me about you."

A faint smile.

"Do you like it here at the hospital?" Polly questioned adroitly.

No smile now, only an added wistfulness. Then courtesy brought a soft response.

"I like it evenings, when daddy comes."

"It's nice you have him to come to see you. I used to wish I had somebody. There was only Aunt Jane, and I guess she was too busy."

"Were you sick, too?" The sky-blue eyes showed interest.

"I was hurt, and they brought me here. I lived in the hospital ever so long."

"Weren't you lonesome?"

"No, only once in a while, when I saw other folks having company. I was in the ward, you know. After I got acquainted with father—he wasn't my father then—I didn't mind. Don't you just love father? Everybody does!"

"Yes; he's nice," smiled the boy. "How did he come to be your father?"

"He and mother adopted me. My own papa and mamma are in Heaven."

"Oh! are they? That's where mommy is. Daddy is all I've got. I wish you'd come and see daddy sometime. He gets here every night right after six o'clock."

"I'd love to!" Polly beamed. "Fathers are beautiful, I think. Of course, mothers are—but fathers!" Her curls gave the emphasis.

"I know!" cried little Chris, his eyes ashine. "Daddy's the dearest that ever was! Why, if anything should happen to daddy—there might, while I'm here and can't take care of him!—oh, I don't know what I should do!" Fear crept over the sweet face.

"I wouldn't worry about it," counseled Polly cheerily. "Big men can take care of themselves better than little folks like us can."

"Daddy isn't very big," confided Chris in a low tone; "but he's strong, strong as anything! I guess there couldn't much hurt him, could there?" he smiled reassuringly.

"No, indeed!" assented Polly.

"He is so strong he brought me 'way up here in his arms," the lad exulted, "and he wasn't tired a bit! I wish he could come and stay with me daytimes," the wistful voice went on, "but he has to sleep then. He watches, you know."

"And you have to stay alone all night?" Polly's eyes showed sympathy.

"Oh! daddy doesn't go away till after I'm asleep," the lad explained, "and he is home again before I wake up. A nice woman in the next room comes in if I call her. I never did but once, and that was when I fell out of bed. I gave a little cry before I knew anything. It didn't hurt me a mite, but she was scared, and daddy was, too. He wouldn't leave me the next night."

Dr. Dudley's entrance put a stop to the talk, and presently Polly said good-bye, carrying away with her a happy picture of Moses Cohn's protege.

When Polly first saw "daddy" she was conscious of disappointment. The slight man with the cold black eyes and the hard-lined mouth did not tally with her thought of "the dearest that ever was." Yet his greeting was pleasant, and whenever he spoke to his little son a tenderness stole into his voice that made her regard him with more lenient eyes, and before her visit was over he proved himself so fascinating an entertainer, she went away feeling that the opinion of little Chris was not after all so very far from the truth.

One night "daddy" did not appear, until the sick boy, who for hours had strained his ears for the step he loved, was in a state of agitation which the combined efforts of nurse and physician failed to calm.

At last Polly was summoned, and although her arguments were not unlike those put forth by the others, they were made in such simple faith as to carry greater force.

"He'd come if he was alive! I know he would!" the boy had been tearfully reiterating. "He must be dead—oh, daddy! daddy!"

Polly entered in time to hear the last. She skipped straight to the cot.

"Now, Chris, just listen to me! Your daddy isn't dead!"

"How do you know?" he asked weakly. There was a touch of hope in the doubting tone.

"Why, we'd have heard of it long before this, if he were," she reasoned rashly.

"We might not," he objected.

"Oh, yes, we should have!" she insisted. "Because everybody knows you're at the hospital, and they'd send word to father first thing."

"They would, wouldn't they?" he brightened.

"Of course," she returned confidently.

"But why doesn't he come?" he persisted.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied cheerfully. "Maybe he had to go away on business—father does sometimes, and can't stop for anything. But I wouldn't worry another bit, if I were you. When he comes and tells you all about it, you'll wonder why you didn't think it was all right—just as it is."

Chris said nothing, only gazed into Polly's face, as if to gather even more assurance than her words had given him.

"I'm going to tell you about a blizzard we had last winter," Polly went on, "when father went to New York and mother was sick, and I was all alone." Then, seeing she had her hearer's attention, she began the story of the well-remembered February day.

Her voice was soft and soothing, and before the tale was half-told the sky-blue eyes closed and the tired little boy was asleep. This was well, as the messenger who had finally been sent to Mr. Morrow's boarding-place returned with the word that the man had not been there since early the previous day, and nobody knew where he had gone.

The next morning Chris received from his father a short letter saying that urgent business had suddenly called him to New York, where he had been most unexpectedly detained so that he might not be able to return home under a day or two, but that he should come to the hospital just as soon as he arrived in Fair Harbor. A number of beautiful post-cards were inclosed in the envelope, one of which was immediately laid aside for Polly, and then at once exchanged for another that might be a bit more attractive. This exchange went on for some time, until she had been allotted them all in turn, and the nurse was finally called into counsel for a last decision.

When Polly came in for a flying visit before school, she was given her present, which she received with genuine pleasure, for the little card was an exquisite creation, and the fact that Chris wished her to have the very prettiest of his treasures made it doubly dear.

Three days dragged by before Mr. Morrow again appeared at the hospital. Then it was at a much later hour than usual, and the small boy was asleep. His father insisted on awakening him, however, and their meeting, the nurse asserted, was not without tears on both sides.

On the day that little Chris was to leave the hospital, Polly paid him a long visit, and there were many plans and promises for the future. It was arranged that Chris should come up to see Polly at least every Saturday, as soon as he was well enough, and until that time Polly was to ride across the city with her father to visit him. When, at last, the six o'clock bell told of a supper that would soon be coming in on a tray, and of the one awaiting Polly at home, the good-byes had to be said. Then the lad drew from beneath his pillow a small leather case.

"I wanted to give you something," he said wistfully, "so daddy bought me this. I hope you'll like it. I think it's pretty."

Polly opened the dainty box, to find, on a cushion of white velvet, an exquisite pansy pin, with green-gold leaves, the blossom studded with sapphires and diamonds.

"Oh, how beautiful!" she cried delightedly. "I never saw anything so lovely."

"I thought you'd like it," he beamed. "Just hold it up to your neck—it looks sweet there! You'll keep it always to remember me by, won't you?"

"Forever," promised Polly. "Oh, it is so nice of your father to buy it for me!"

"He's always nice," praised Chris. "There couldn't be anybody better." And for the moment Polly almost agreed with him.

But when Dr. Dudley saw the pretty ornament he looked grave.

"It is far too expensive a present for you to accept," he objected. "Diamonds and sapphires are costly stones. This must be worth a great deal of money."

"Can't I keep it then?" questioned Polly plaintively. "It will break Chris's heart if I don't."

"We needn't decide the matter to-night." He looked across the table to his wife. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know," was the doubtful reply. "How can Mr. Morrow buy such jewelry, do you suppose? A night watchman's position cannot bring him very high wages."

The Doctor shook his head, and narrowed his eyes in thought. Then he began to talk of other things.

Meantime Polly was in distress. What would Chris say, if she had to give back his beautiful present which she had promised always to keep?

The next afternoon Dr. Dudley brought the matter to a climax by driving over to see the father of little Chris. Perhaps a talk with him would put things in a different light. Thus reasoning, he rang the doorbell at Mr. Morrow's boarding-house.

"They ain't here," began the woman who answered his summons. "They got off, bag and baggage, before breakfast, this morning. He paid up all right," she exulted, "an' when they do that I'm done with 'em. He was a good payin' man straight along, I'll say that for him; but where he's gone I do' know no more 'n West Peak!"

Questioning among the boarders brought no satisfaction, and the Doctor returned home mystified and suspicious.

It was long before Polly saw little Chris again.



CHAPTER XIII

ILGA BARRON

Spring was in Fair Harbor. Tulips and hyacinths flaunted their gay gowns in the city parks, and daffodils laughed in old-fashioned gardens. Flocks of blackbirds, by the suburb roadsides, creaked their joy in the sunshine, and robins caroled love ditties to their mates. Mrs. Jocelyn's stable, too, told of spring's coming, for there stood one of the prettiest pairs of ponies that ever trotted before a carriage.

Already Leonora was becoming an experienced little horsewoman, though whenever she drove there was always Philip, Mrs. Jocelyn's man, riding close behind. Polly had had a dozen drives with David and Jonathan, and Elsie and Brida and the others had not been forgotten.

On a Saturday morning Leonora telephoned early and invited Polly to go to Crab Cove, some six miles away. The day was perfect, blue overhead, green along the waysides, and sunshine all around. The girls were in a merry mood.

"There's Ilga Barron out in her yard," remarked Polly, looking ahead.

"M-h'm," replied Leonora indifferently, glancing that way.

"You haven't taken her to ride yet, have you?" Polly went on.

"No, and I'm not going to," was the decided answer.

"Why, you'll have to ask her sometime, shan't you?" insisted Polly. "Say, Leonora, drive slow a minute!"

"What do you want?" began the other, a bit of impatience in her tone.

"I just happened to think,"—the words were tumbling out fast,—"I've had ever so many rides, and Patricia and Lilith and Gladys have, and Ilga will feel it if she is skipped. Mayn't I run over and ask her to take my place for this once? I can go any time, you know! Do you mind?" for Leonora's face showed disapproval.

"Oh, dear! I don't want her!" fretted the little driver. "I wish she hadn't been out there. I wish we'd gone some other way. Yes, go ahead, if you want to!" she yielded, seeing Polly's wistful eyes. "I'll try to be good to her."

The carriage stopped in front of the big granite house, and the exchange was soon made. Ilga was only too ready for a drive behind the ponies which were the envy of every girl who saw them.

Polly waved them a gay good-bye, and turned towards home.

"I believe I'll go up to Patricia's," she said to herself. "Mother won't expect me back for an hour or two, and Patricia wanted me to see her new dresses. It'll be a good time."

Thus thinking, she took the street that led to The Trowbridge, and was presently admiring Patricia's pretty frocks. Time passed quickly, and it was nearly ten o'clock when she finally started for home.

As she rounded the corner below Lady Gay Cottage, she saw her father's automobile in front, and then the Doctor himself coming down the walk on a run.

"Oh, maybe I can go with him!" she thought, and sprang ahead. "Father! father!" she called.

Dr. Dudley turned, and came swiftly towards her. He caught her in his arms,—"Polly!" his voice breaking as she had never heard it before. "You aren't hurt at all?" Incredulity was in his tone.

"Hurt? Why, no! How should I be?"

He left her, leaping up the steps, and throwing wide the door. She heard him call:—

"Lucy! she is here!—safe!"

Polly hurried after, to be clasped tightly in her mother's arms with excited expressions of thankfulness.

"What is it?" she pleaded. "I don't see what it all means!"

"We heard that the ponies ran away," the Doctor explained, "and that one of you was hurt—badly. Somebody thought it was not Leonora, and, of course—"

"Oh, Ilga!" broke in Polly. And she told of how the exchange had been made.

Dr. Dudley hastened away, to learn the truth of the matter, while Polly and her mother tried to settle into something like calmness.

By chance callers and over the wire came snatches of facts concerning the accident. Nobody seemed to know what had startled the ponies, but Leonora had pluckily held to the reins until a hill was reached, thereby averting injury to herself. Ilga, becoming frightened, had jumped from the carriage, with serious results. It had occurred while Philip had gone into a shop for some purchase, leaving his own horse and the little team at the curb. When he came out the ponies were dashing across the railway tracks ahead of a coming train, and he was obliged to wait behind the gates until the small carriage was out of sight.

It was not until the Doctor returned that the nature of Ilga's injuries were known.

"Dr. Palmer and Dr. Houston are attending her," the physician said. "I have heard nothing direct from them, but it is rumored that the girl's back is broken."

"Poor Ilga!" burst out Polly, and hid her face in her hands amid a torrent of tears. "It is all my fault!" she moaned. "It is all my fault! If I hadn't asked her, she wouldn't have got hurt!"

Father and mother tried to soothe her; but her sensitive heart shouldered the entire blame of Ilga's accident, and it required much reasoning before she was able to look at the matter in a true light.

Further reports confirmed the first rumors about the unfortunate girl. It was extremely doubtful, the physicians thought, if she ever walked again. Dr. Dudley and his wife kept the sad tidings as much as possible from Polly; but she was obliged to hear talk of it at school, and often she would come home at noon only to spoil her dinner with tears.

One evening Polly was, as usual, perched on the arm of her father's chair, when he surprised her with some news.

"I had the pleasure of making Miss Ilga's acquaintance to-day."

Polly's eyes widened incredulously.

"She is at the hospital," he continued, "and has passed through a successful operation. It is too soon to be quite positive, but everything looks favorable to-night."

"Is she going to be able to walk?"

"We hope so."

Polly dropped her head on her father's shoulder, and sighed a deep sigh of joy.

"How perfectly beautiful! And to think you have done it!" She caught her breath.

The Doctor rested his cheek lightly on the sunny curls, saying nothing. They were still sitting in silence when Mrs. Dudley came in. Polly and her father understood each other without words.

The Senator's daughter carried out the hopes of the doctors to the highest degree, and there came a day when Polly, at Ilga's own request, was sent for.

Miss Hortensia Price was the sick girl's nurse, and Polly had learned with surprise that a strong friendship was growing between them. Nevertheless she was unprepared for any manifestation of it, and her joy in seeing their evident love for each other made the first moments of her visit less conscious than they otherwise might have been, for she had been wondering if her schoolmate attached any blame to her for the injuries received in the accident.

"Miss Price knows—I've told her!"—Ilga began abruptly; "but I want you to know, for they said you cried when you heard I was hurt, and you thought it was your fault. It wasn't! Not the least bit! It was all mine! Mrs. Jocelyn's man went into the store, and told us to wait. I didn't see why we should,—and I don't now, if the ponies were properly trained. I wanted just to drive around the square, but Leonora wouldn't; so I began to fool with the whip. I switched it about, and teased the ponies. Leonora said she'd never touched them with it, and I told her I didn't see what a whip was good for if it wasn't used—and I don't! If she'd been quiet, I shouldn't have been so possessed about it; but she kept saying, 'Don't, Ilga! Please don't, Ilga!' and I hate being nagged. So finally I gave it a good smart flirt, and off they went like a shot! Of course, I was scared, and hardly knew what I did do. Leonora said, real low, 'Keep still! Don't stir!' I do' know as I should have jumped, if she hadn't told me not to. But I did, and that's the last I knew till the doctors were fussing over me."

"But you're going to get well now!" Polly burst out delightedly.

The pale face on the pillow reflected the joy. "Yes," Ilga replied, "I guess I am, unless they all lie to me. I know Miss Price doesn't," with a nodding smile towards the window where the nurse sat reading. "But I didn't s'pose I ever should one time. I don't b'lieve I should either, if it hadn't been for Dr. Dudley. Polly, your father is just splendid!"

Polly's eyes suddenly filled with happy tears. This was something she had not anticipated—at least, not yet.

The nurse came with a few spoonfuls of nourishment, and the talk passed to other things; but Polly went away feeling that Ilga's praise was her apology, and that her enemy had been miraculously changed into a friend.

Yet there were hours when the old Ilga was at the front, domineering and impertinent, and Polly would be called upon to exercise all her tact and patience in order to keep things pleasant during her visits. But, little by little, as the convalescent gathered strength of body she also gained in self-control. Miss Price and Polly were her adored examples of beautiful living, and it was plain that she was honestly trying to attain to what she admired in them, although the dissimilarity of eleven and thirty made the task somewhat more difficult.

Miss Hortensia Price seemed to Polly to be more gentle than in the old days. Or was it that she now understood her better? She could not tell; but it was as unending a wonderment as a joy that the dignified nurse and the untrained, ungoverned girl should have become such close friends.

On the day set for Ilga to try walking across her room she had planned a small tea-party for her chosen comrades.

"Wouldn't it be wiser, my dear, to wait until the next day?" Miss Price had suggested, not daring to hint more strongly of the possibility of the blasting of their hopes. "The excitement and pleasure of being on your feet again should be sufficient for Wednesday."

But Ilga, sanguine and joyous, wished her friends there to witness her achievement, and so the preparations had gone on.

Miss Price was to be the guest of honor, and Polly, Patricia, David, Gustave, and June English and her brother were to make up the party. Mrs. Barron was sparing neither trouble nor money to please her daughter, and there were to be guessing contests, with prizes for the successful ones. It was quite out of Ilga's power to keep a secret, so Polly had been treated to a glimpse of the dear little pussy-head pins, with the emerald eyes, and had heard all about the odd-shaped sandwiches and the curious cakes representing animals, birds, and various other objects, the guessing of which was to be the feature of the tea. She had even peeped at one of the beautiful boxes of confections which stood ready to be given the departing guests as sweet good-byes, until she was looking forward to the party almost as joyfully as Ilga herself. And then the New York letter came.

Ilga noticed the change as soon as Polly appeared.

"What's the matter?" she asked abruptly.

Polly had been bravely trying to smile, but at the sudden question the corners of her mouth flew down.

"How'd you know there was anything?" she faltered.

"Hoh, I can read you like a book! Your mother sick?"

"No, oh, no! But I can't be here at the party!"

"Why not?" Ilga raised herself on her elbow.

"We had a letter from Cousin Floyd last night, and they want me to come to New York Wednesday morning."

"Well, you aren't obliged to go, if they do! Oh, you haven't a bit of spunk!"

"It isn't that, Ilga. Father thinks I ought to go, seeing it's my vacation, and so does mother. Two of my girl cousins that I haven't ever seen are going to sail for Germany in a day or two, and they aren't coming back for years, maybe, and they want me to help them receive at their farewell party—"

"Oh, yes! I s'pose their party's better'n mine!" Ilga burst out scornfully. "If you do go, Polly Dudley, let me tell you I'll never speak—"

"My dear!" Miss Price arrested the rash words on Ilga's lips, and took the hot cheeks between her cool palms.

The excited girl sobbed out her penitence and her disappointment in the nurse's arms, while Polly sat by, distressed at the way things were going.

When the tears were spent, the three talked the matter over quietly,—or as quietly as Ilga would allow. At first she decided peremptorily that if Polly could not be there she would have no party at all; but arguments and persuasions finally had their effect, and the plans were left unaltered, Glen Stewart being chosen in place of Polly.



CHAPTER XIV

POLLY IN NEW YORK

Polly's first journey by herself caused a good deal of excitement in Lady Gay Cottage. Mrs. Dudley was a little nervous at thought of it, the Doctor wondered at the very last moment if he had been unwise to allow her to go alone, and for Polly herself the new experience almost pushed Ilga Barron and the tea-party from her mind. But the miles were traveled without any startling adventure, and in two hours she was in New York, with Cousin Floyd clasping her in his arms and telling her how glad he was to see her.

The next days were so crammed with novel sights and undreamed-of pleasures that Polly felt as if she were in a new kind of merry-go-round and must stop and take breath. But she whirled on and on, in company with her cousins and other girls and boys, and everybody was so kind and so gay that she found not a moment to be homesick or lonely in, although Fair Harbor seemed a very long way off.

From the first she and her Cousin Harold were comrades. They discovered that they had read the same books, that they enjoyed the same sports, that they loved the same flowers and songs and fairy-tale heroes. Harold had always envied boys with sisters, and now his dream of a sister for himself seemed actually to have come to pass—only he knew that the waking time must be soon.

Ever since it had been decided that Polly should come to New York she had wondered with a vague fear if her relatives would urge her to remain with them; but for a few days nothing was said of it. Then Harold spoke out.

"I wish you were really my sister," he told her, as they stood together watching the antics of some monkeys at the Hippodrome; "then we could come here every Saturday."

"You couldn't come," Polly laughed. "You'd be away at school."

"No," was the serious reply, "I should get father to let me go to school here. If you'd stay and be my cousin-sister, it would be just exactly as good—oh, Polly! won't you?"

Her lips drooped sorrowfully. "I can't! truly I can't!" she answered, just as she had answered his brother, in Fair Harbor.

Then they went past the cage of the very funniest monkeys of all, and Harold did not even smile.

The day before the one set for Polly's going home she was given a grand party by her cousins, and Uncle Maurice ordered the affair with a free hand. She had never seen a house so converted into a garden of flowers. Wandering about from room to room, she and Harold watched the men as they placed potted plants, twined garlands, banked windows and fireplaces with vines and blossoms, and arranged pretty nooks of greenery and color. Finally they sat down in a little make-believe arbor of roses, Polly busily admiring everything.

Harold was more quiet; he was even grave. At last his thoughts became words.

"Oh, Polly, stay with me! do! I want you!"

"Why, Harold, you know I told you I couldn't!" she answered, almost reprovingly.

"I know you say so," he retorted; "but you can! You can as well as not! You just don't want to—that's why! But I think you might, to please me! Do, Polly!"

She plucked a bit of green from her cousin's coat sleeve before she replied.

"I don't see how I could leave father and mother," she said softly. "You wouldn't want to give up your home here and your father and brothers to go and live with me."

"Yes, I would!" was the unexpected response. "I'd go in a minute! Polly, I'd go anywhere or do anything for you!"

The boy believed it, and, looking into his earnest eyes, Polly almost believed it, too. She did not know how to answer. Then she shifted the viewpoint.

"But father and mother—you don't think of them! How could they get along without any little girl?—without me?"

Harold thought and sighed. This was a new light on the matter.

"No, they couldn't," he admitted slowly. "They've known you longer than I have, and I don't see how they could give you up. Well, I suppose I shall have to let you go." He looked the disconsolate lover, instead of the merry-hearted boy of ten.

Two weeks before, when Polly's small trunk had been packed, she had begged to be allowed to take with her the parting present of Chris Morrow, for hitherto there had been no occasion grand enough to warrant its being used. At first Mrs. Dudley had been in doubt, but after a few quite reasonable arguments on the part of Polly the little case had been tucked into a safe corner. The beautiful ornament had already fastened Polly's sash a number of times, and it was again called into service for the home party. She was in a hurry when the maid clasped it, for Harold was calling her to come out in the hall and see the caterers bring the things in, and before the evening was half spent her sash was trailing out of place and the pin missing. Hastily she confided to her cousin her misfortune, and together they searched up and down the rooms. Finally, just as Harold was starting to tell Floyd of the loss, they heard a cry of surprise from one of the guests not far away, and they saw that the pansy pin was in her hand.

"I found it right down here!" the girl was saying excitedly. "Where do you s'pose it came from? Oh, it's just like one my sister had that was stolen by a burglar last winter—why!" as the back of the pin was disclosed, "it is hers! There's the 'B' I scratched one day, and Tip gave me an awful scolding for it! I was going to scratch my whole name, but she caught me too quick—my, didn't she come at me!"

Harold waited for no more.

"It belongs to my cousin," he explained. "She just lost it from her sash, and we've been hunting everywhere for it."

He held out his hand for the ornament, but the finder clasped it tightly in her palm.

"It is my sister's," she declared. "The burglars—"

"Botheration!" he cried. "Of course, it isn't the same pin! This one is Polly's. It was a present to her, and she thinks a lot of it."

"But I scratched the 'B'—"

"Probably somebody else scratched this. Did you, Polly?" turning to his cousin.

"No," she admitted slowly, "I didn't; but I noticed the 'B,' and wondered how it came to be there. I don't see how it could have been your sister's," she said, addressing the girl who still kept the pin hidden in her hand. "Chris's father bought it for him to give to me."

Those most interested in this little controversy were now surrounded by the young guests who were eager to know the cause of the dispute. Floyd and Julian pressed near, but before they reached Polly's side she had bravely settled the question.

"Keep the pin," she yielded gently. "I should not wish to have it back again if you think it belongs to your sister. Come, Harold!" and turning from the little crowd she ran into the arms of Floyd.

He drew her away to a retired spot, followed only by the eyes of a few curious ones, and the story was told, beginning with little Chris and ending with Bertha Kingstone.

Polly was close to tears as she finished, and Harold was openly indignant that she should have allowed Bertha to keep the pin.

"Of course, there are two pins!" he declared vehemently. "This one never belonged to Tip Kingstone. If you don't get it away from her, Floyd Westwood, I will!" His flashing eyes emphasized his hot words, and he would have carried out his threat if it had not been for his brother's authoritative advice to let things be as they had fallen until their father could be consulted.

This little episode came near upsetting the party, but Aunt Sally Calhoun was a diplomat of no mean degree, and under her tactful management things quickly regained their smooth course. Yet Polly went to sleep that night wishing with all her heart that she had never brought her precious pansy pin to New York.

The next morning, just as she was putting on her hat and coat to go to the station, a maid appeared at her door with a card. She read, engraved in small script, "Bertha Curtis Kingstone," and she wondered with a joyful wonder why she had come to see her.

The girl that met her downstairs in the reception room seemed a very different Bertha from the one of the night before. She held out the pin.

"Mother says I have no right to this," she began abruptly, "and I beg your pardon for keeping it." The words were spoken in a low, monotonous voice, as if they were a lesson. "I am sorry I was so rude, and I trust you will excuse me."

Polly was at once generous.

"Oh, it may be yours!" she responded. "I'm afraid I ought not to take it back."

"Mercy!" the other broke out, "I guess you'll have to! I've had scoldings enough over the old pin! I wouldn't carry it home again for a bushel of 'em!"

"I am sorry you have been scolded," sympathized Polly.

"Oh, I don't care!" Bertha returned. "I'm used to it. But I hate to apologize—that's the worst of doing things. Good-bye!"

Polly ran to find Harold, to share with him her joy in the restored pin; but the lad was not to be seen. Nor did he appear to bid her good-bye, although she lingered to search for him until she came near missing her train. What could have happened? Fear haunted her all the way home.



CHAPTER XV

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

One of Polly's first questions on her return was of Ilga Barron. If she had not been so over-occupied while in New York, the fact that not a word was written her of Ilga would have given her great concern. As it was she had had only time for brief surprise on receipt of letter or card; then it would slip from her mind. But now she eagerly awaited her mother's answer. It was slow in coming, and then was accompanied by an ominous shake of the head.

"Ilga's party day ended sadly. Her first few steps were such a joy that she forgot herself, and started on with a skip. Her foot caught—"

"Oh!" cried Polly in consternation, "did she fall?"

Mrs. Dudley nodded, hastening to say, "Your father thinks she will come out all right in time, but there will have to be a long waiting. She realizes it is her own fault, for Miss Price warned her to be careful; but that doesn't make it any easier to bear."

"Poor Ilga!" mourned Polly. "While I was having such a splendid time she was feeling so bad! I'll go to see her right away, and tell her all about my visit. Perhaps that will help her to forget."

So Polly found her work waiting for her, and she took it up with her usual readiness; but it was hard to settle into the regular school routine after the exciting whirl of that gay fortnight. Cards had come from Floyd and Harold, but the absence of the latter when she left them was not even mentioned. This she could not understand, for she had expected an apology as the very least amends he could make. Taken altogether such rudeness seemed to Polly unpardonable, after Harold's protested affection. Still his message was as warm-hearted and loving as ever, and she wisely tried to put the matter aside as one of the things that could not be explained away.

When she had been at home a week, and New York was beginning to fade into the past, she returned from afternoon school to find nobody in sight as she entered the back door. Quietly she went through the house, and hearing voices in the library she halted to ascertain if there were company. A few words arrested her.

"It is a shame for you to have to do so much for so little," Mrs. Dudley was saying.

The Doctor laughed softly. Polly could almost hear his eyes twinkle.

"You, too!" he retorted.

"Nonsense!" she protested; "all I'm doing is to try to keep the household expenses down as low as possible."

"And that is the main thing. You have done admirably. I hoped we could be out of pinch before long—and now this cut-down in salary!"

"Never mind! we shall get on all right," came in Mrs. Dudley's cheery tones.

"Of course," the Doctor agreed; "but it means too much scrimp for you. It is what I did not anticipate. If I had more time for outside practice"—he stopped, as if musing. "And if it weren't for the coal bill!"

"That coal bill is your bugbear," laughed his wife. "Don't worry, Robert! It isn't like you. Winship isn't bothering you about it, is he?"

"Not a bit. It is only that I hate debt, and—"

Polly involuntarily tiptoed away, feeling strangely guilty at having overheard what was not intended for her ears. So her father's salary had been cut down! And it was small enough before! She had heard the coal bill spoken of awhile ago,—yes, when she was getting ready for New York,—but she had given it no thought. And her mother had bought her new things to wear! Distress swept her heart. She was an added expense—ought she to have gone to live with her uncle? He was rich. He could pay his coal bills. He was never in pinch. Oh! did her father and mother wish she had gone? There was no peace for Polly. Dutifully she crept over to the hospital to see Ilga, but found her in a pettish mood, and she returned home more disturbed than before. She longed to offer her bank money again, but she knew it would be of no use. Besides, she did not wish her father and mother to know she had been eavesdropping. She blushed with shame at the thought. Why had she not run away at once, or gone boldly into the room. Oh, how she wished she had!

Bedtime found her in the same frame of mind, although she tried to appear as if nothing had occurred. She had bidden her mother good-night, and her foot was on the stair, when the doorbell rang.

"I'll go," she called softly into the library, and then skipped to answer the summons.

As the door opened she gave a surprised little scream.

"Harold Westwood!"

The boy darted inside, clasping his cousin with a glad cry.

"I supposed you were at boarding-school," Polly told him.

"I was," the lad replied a bit shamefacedly. Then bravely, "I ran away to see you!"

"Why, Harold!"

"I don't care!" was the dogged response. "I had to!"

"I shouldn't think they'd have let you come in the night," said Polly, leading him into the library.

The introduction relieved the lad of the necessity of an answer; but Polly innocently plied her questions.

"Why didn't Julian come, too? Was it a half-holiday?"

For an instant Harold looked disconcerted. Then he replied boldly:—

"Jule doesn't know! I tell you, I ran away!"

Polly's eyes widened in astonishment. Mrs. Dudley smiled understandingly.

"I gave the conductor my watch for security," the boy went on. "I told him how 'twas, and he let me ride,—I guess out of his own pocket. He was a good one! You see, I spent all my money in a jiffy for the first part of the way and something to eat. I didn't s'pose tickets cost so much."

"You dear child!" murmured Mrs. Dudley, her eyes soft with sympathy. Then she caught him in her arms, as if he had been a baby.

"Have you had any supper?"

A weary little negative sent her into the pantry, and soon the hungry lad was eating bread and butter and cheese and cookies, and feasting his eyes upon Polly at the same time.

"Say, where in the world were you when I came away from your house?" was the sudden inquiry.

"Out in the garage," Harold answered promptly.

"But didn't you hear us call?"

He nodded, his lips puckered into a half-smile.

"Why didn't you answer, then?" Polly was plainly puzzled.

"Because," he blurted out defiantly, "I wasn't coming to say good-bye for anybody!"

"Perhaps you thought, with Dickens," interposed Mrs. Dudley considerately, "that it is easier to act good-bye than to say it."

"It is!" declared Harold, wagging his head. "I guess he knew!"

Over the wires, after the children were asleep, went messages to school and home that banished anxiety, and then the Doctor and his wife talked long into the night. It had been a disturbing day.

At breakfast Harold announced his intention of remaining in Fair Harbor and going to school with Polly, but an early telegram from his father ended his happy planning. He scowled as he read the yellow slip.

"Return to school at once, and behave yourself."

"Botheration!" he grumbled, "I s'pose I'll have to! Pop always means what he says."

Yet the lad enjoyed his breakfast, judging by the number of bananas and muffins that disappeared from his plate, until Polly, thinking of yesterday's overheard talk, wondered what they should have done if her cousin had followed out his desire. Bananas cost; she was not so sure about muffins. In consequence of which she restricted her own appetite to the latter, and made her mother question if she were quite well, to pass by her favorite fruit.

Equipped with tickets for the journey and sufficient money to redeem his watch, besides a generous luncheon, Harold was put aboard the ten o'clock train. Notwithstanding his longing heart, he carried himself pluckily, consoled by Mrs. Dudley's invitation to spend a week of his summer's vacation in Fair Harbor. Yet she saw him suspiciously sweep his eyes with the back of his hand as the train whirled him off, and she sighed in sympathy, thinking, "Poor little fellow! he needs a mother!"



CHAPTER XVI

ROSES AND THORNS

David pulled a rose from the little bush by the house corner, and began to chew its petals.

"Don't do that!" begged Polly. "It doesn't want to be eaten up."

The boy laughed, looking ruefully down at the jagged edges of the flower.

"It isn't sweet anyway," he argued. "If I were a rose I'd be sweet, and I wouldn't have thorns. But then," he went on thoughtfully, "people are a good deal like roses. Some are sweet, and some aren't; but 'most everybody has thorns somewhere."

"I guess one of mine's laziness," sighed Polly, "and it's been pricking the teachers all this week. I hate to study in such warm weather! I want to stay outdoors instead of being shut up in a stuffy room."

"It is horrid," agreed Patricia, "but I don't dare be lazy. I have to get good reports to send back to Nevada. If I didn't stand high, papa'd have a conniption."

"I'm going to study better next week," decided Polly, "so I'll be a thornless rose, like you."

"Dear me, I have thorns enough!" Patricia laughed. "Mamma says I'm selfish and careless and, oh, I don't know what! So, you see, they scratch her. What's your thorn, David?"

"Jealousy," he replied promptly.

Patricia looked surprised.

"Who are you jealous of?" she queried curiously.

"Nobody just this minute." He threw a furtive glance in Polly's direction, over the rose he was nipping again; but she was occupied with the tendrils of a vine that were wandering from their support.

"I wish we had some Lady Gay roses to cover our old bare piazza," he broke out abruptly. "Yours are fine." He looked admiringly towards the little cottage next door, now beautiful in its bloom and greenery.

"Hasn't anybody bought your house yet, has there?" asked Patricia.

"No," Polly answered, "not that we've heard of. Father says the price is too high."

"Lucky for you," remarked David. "And lucky for us, too," he laughed. "I don't know but Uncle David would want to sell out if you folks should leave."

"Why don't you have some roses?" questioned Polly, coming back to the flowers. She gazed up at the stately columns, free of living adornment, and decided the matter quickly.

"They'd make it lovely!" she beamed. "Silver Moons would be splendid all over these pillars, and Lady Gays on the side piazza. Mrs. Jocelyn has an elegant Silver Moon, roses as big as that,"—curving her fingers into as wide a circle as they could compass,—"just single white, with great yellow anthers—oh, they're beautiful! I wish your uncle would get some. Why don't you ask him, David?"

"You may," he evaded.

"I believe you don't dare," Polly cried. "David Collins, are you afraid of him yet? Why, I don't see how you can be, he is so nice."

The lad laughed. "I suppose I can't quite get over those years I stood in such awe of him," he confessed. "But," he added, "he's fine; nobody could be finer."

"Polly was telling me the other day," put in Patricia, "about the time she and Colonel Gresham chased after Dr. Dudley for you. I wish I could have seen Lone Star go."

"There! I haven't had a glimpse of Lone Star for a week!" Polly broke out. "Is he in the stable, David? Let's go and see him!"

Away they raced, to visit the famous trotter, and to feed him with bread and butter and sugar which David begged from the cook. They were still petting the affectionate animal when Colonel Gresham walked in.

"Ah, I've caught you!" he growled. "Now I know what makes my horse have indigestion!"

Patricia, looking a bit scared, stopped short in her feeding; but Lone Star nosed down to the piece of bread in her hand.

David and Polly chuckled, understanding the Colonel better, and Patricia, seeing his laughing eyes, at once recovered herself.

"Who wants to go to ride with Lone Star and me?" Colonel Gresham asked.

There was a duet of "I's" from the girls. David said nothing.

"Sorry my buggy will permit of only one invitation. We shall have to draw cuts, shan't we?"

Three lengths of straw were made, the Colonel arranging them as if he were used to the business. The children eyed them with lively interest.

"You choose first, Patricia," Polly said, and they watched breathlessly while her fingers wavered in front of the big, steady hand before daring to pull.

Finally she plucked at one. It was the longest of all.

"Oh, dear!" she lamented.

"Now, Polly!" bade David.

"That will leave you Hobson's choice," she laughed; but he motioned her on, and she caught at the nearest one.

It was an inch shorter than the remaining straw, and she smiled up at the Colonel.

"Miss Dudley, may Lone Star and I have the pleasure of your comradeship for the next hour?" he invited, bowing low.

"I shall be very happy to go," she laughed, sweeping him a little curtsy.

Presently the carriage was ready, Polly and the Colonel jumped in, and Patricia and David sent merry good-byes in the wake of Lone Star's flying feet.

"I can't help being glad I won," confessed Polly, drawing a long breath of delight at the drive in store for her.

Colonel Gresham smiled responsively, tucked the linen duster a little closer, asked her if she were quite comfortable, and then began a little story in the life of his favorite horse.

As they passed through the pleasant streets, between front dooryards banked with flowers, the talk after a while led quite naturally to climbing roses for the Colonel's own house.

"If only you could see Mrs. Jocelyn's roses!" Polly wished. "There couldn't be any lovelier ones."

She told him of the great single Silver Moons, and pictured them on his own piazza, until he said he must surely have some.

"Oh!" cried Polly, the thought suddenly popping into her head, "why can't we go round to Mrs. Jocelyn's and see hers? It won't be very much out of our way, and then you can tell just how they'll look. You know Mrs. Jocelyn, don't you?"

Colonel Gresham nodded gravely.

"Then you won't mind going to see her roses, shall you?" Polly chattered on. "She has a big rose garden at the side of the house, lots of beautiful ones; but I 'most know you'll like the Silver Moon kind best."

"I don't believe I like any kind of roses," the Colonel broke out abruptly. "They have too many thorns. Somebody would always be getting scratched if they were on my piazza. I reckon I won't have them, after all."

Polly started to speak, looked up, and then shut her lips on the words. The stern set of her companion's face forbade talk. Yet in a moment it softened, the words came again, and this time they were not forced back.

"Roses are so beautiful, and the thorns are so little I forget about them." She halted, but the Colonel did not respond.

"Once when I was a very small girl," she went on, "I picked a rose in our yard, and scratched my hand so it bled. I ran, crying, to mamma; but she didn't pay any attention to that, only told me to look at the rose. It was a lovely tea rose, the color of sunset when the sky is all yellow with just a bit of a pink flush. She talked about it, till I forgot my finger. When I happened to recollect, the hurt seemed so little compared with that beautiful rose. I guess that's why I don't mind thorns any more. I've always remembered it."

"A good thing to remember," spoke out Colonel Gresham fervently, "and a blessed thing to live up to—if only we could! But some thorns pierce deep!"

He did not look at Polly. One might have thought him talking to Lone Star, for his eyes were on the horse's head.

"Yes, some are bigger than others," Polly replied innocently. "They hurt more. But Silver Moon doesn't have very many. Oh," she cried earnestly, thinking of the rose, "I do wish you could see those of Mrs. Jocelyn's! Isn't it funny," she went on musingly, "how she always calls you David, just as if you were one of her very best friends! Only very best friends call each other by their first names, do they? I mean grown-up people. I guess she thinks a lot of you. Sometimes her eyes—you know what dark, shiny eyes she has—well, sometimes when she's talking about you they get so bright and soft, they're just beautiful! I think she is a lovely lady, don't you?"

"I presume she is, from what I hear," replied the Colonel. "I haven't seen her in a long time. But how comes it that she speaks of me? I can't see any occasion for it."

"Oh, I don't know! She talks of you very often. She thinks a lot of David. You know he goes up there with me a good deal."

"David Collins!—goes up to see Mrs. Jocelyn?" Colonel Gresham was plainly surprised.

"Why, not Mrs. Jocelyn exactly, but Leonora. Didn't he ever say anything about it? We go up 'most every week."

"Ah, yes, Leonora! I had forgotten. She is the adopted child?"

Polly recounted the story of Leonora's adoption, to which the Colonel listened attentively; but he made few comments, and when it ended he was silent.

Polly did not know what to think of Colonel Gresham to-day; in fact she began to feel as if she were not quite acquainted with him. She was strangely reminded of that other day, not a year ago, when she chose her happy reward, "to the half of his kingdom." If he were like this at home, she wondered no more that David sometimes refrained from asking him questions. She was still thinking about it, when, suddenly, his customary genial manner returned, and they reached home in such high spirits that David would have been surprised to have learned that any part of the drive had been passed in silence.