CHAPTER XVII

A SUMMER NIGHT MYSTERY

David Collins was on the piazza with a book when he heard the call. He sprang up and ran to the end towards Lady Gay Cottage.

"Hullo, Pollee! What is it?"

"Can you come over? I'm all alone. Mother's gone to ride with the Scribners, and father's up in Forestford at a consultation."

"I'll come right now. Say, this is a dandy book! Shall I bring it along?"

By the time the story was finished, David reading it aloud, it was too dusky for another, and the children sat and talked, one in the hammock, the other in the lounging-chair.

Presently Colonel Gresham drove out. David watched him, while Polly indulged in her usual admiration of Lone Star. The carriage was out of sight before the boy turned his eyes from the road where it had vanished.

"I do wonder where he is going," he sighed.

"Probably to give the poor horse some fresh air and exercise," responded Polly. "I see him go out nearly every night about this time."

"Yes, I know," returned David grimly, "but it isn't just for Lone Star's health."

"Maybe it's business then. Did you wish you were with him?"

"Oh, no, not that at all!" David hastened to say. "Perhaps I oughtn't to speak of it—I shouldn't only to you. But I know you won't tell."

"Tell what?" laughed Polly. "I don't know anything to tell, and I wouldn't tell it if I did!"

"I don't know either—wish I could find out; then we'd know what to expect."

"What do you mean, David Collins? Why do you care where your uncle goes?"

"Because it may make a great deal of difference to mamma and me. We're dreadfully worried."

Polly's face took on an anxious shadow.

"You're not afraid he's—getting to gambling—or drinking, are you?" Her voice dropped almost to a whisper.

David stared as if he doubted his hearing; then he threw back his head, and laughed.

"Uncle David—gambling! drinking! Oh, Pollee! that's too funny! oh, my!"

Polly laughed, too, out of sympathy.

"Well, you said,—" she began in excuse.

"I didn't say anything of that kind—oh, Polly! No, we aren't worried about Uncle David's habits."

"Well, what is it, then? I'm not going to guess any more."

"I wouldn't," giggled David.

"Anyway I've made you laugh," exulted Polly. "You have been as grave as an owl all the evening."

"Let me tell you—then you won't wonder I'm grave."

"I'll let you all right," Polly chuckled.

David was too seriously troubled to notice.

"It is this way," he went on; "you know how Uncle David has always taken us to ride after supper, either mamma or me alone, or both in the surrey—he has ever since it was mild enough."

"Why, yes, I've gone with you lots of times."

"And now he takes somebody else—a lady, nearly every night!"

"It is too bad," Polly returned plaintively. "We'd love to have you go with us, if we could only go ourselves; but father can't get away, and—"

"Oh, I don't mean that!" David burst out. "It isn't because we're so anxious for a drive; but, Polly, don't you see? If Uncle David is taking a lady out every night, it means something!"

"What does it mean?" queried Polly in a puzzled voice.

"Why, that he is going to be married!"

"O-h!"

"And that means that mamma and I must get out!"

"No, it doesn't!"

"Mamma says so." David's head came down with decision. "Mamma wouldn't stay to be in the way, and, oh, dear! Now you see why we are so worried."

"But how do you know he takes a lady to ride?"

"Because I've seen her."

"Who is it?"

"I can't tell—that's the trouble. We have known he went out alone, but we didn't think much about it till a week or so ago. I'd been up to Archie Howard's, and was coming home through Oregon Avenue,—you know how shady it is up there,—and just along by the Woodruffs' Uncle David whirled past me. I guess I was looking so hard to make sure it was he that I didn't notice the lady much, but it wasn't a man."

"Was that all? That doesn't mean anything! Maybe he just happened to pick her up on her way home. He knows 'most everybody."

"No, he didn't! If he did, he picked her up again two nights afterward, for I was down on Curtis Street, and just before I got to the avenue there they were! They were going like lightning, and I couldn't make out any more than I could before. The lady was on the other side of Uncle David; but I'm sure it was the same one."

"But couldn't he take a lady to ride without marrying her?" asked Polly slowly.

"Why, I suppose some men do," answered David; "but mamma says when a man of his age—who hasn't been round with the ladies for years and years—takes one out evening after evening, it isn't for nothing. And mamma says, of course, when he brings a wife home we can't stay. Oh, I don't know what we shall do! I thought we should live here with Uncle David always. It is making mamma just sick. I know she keeps thinking of those dreadful years before he made up, and if we've got to go back to them again!"

"I wouldn't worry," soothed Polly. "Maybe it isn't anything at all. I don't b'lieve he'll get married. If he'd been going to, he'd have done it before he got so old."

"He isn't very old. He's only a little over fifty."

"That's old to get married, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know!" replied David absently.

"Well, I shall be married before I'm fifty," announced Polly decidedly.

David laughed.

"Who you going to marry?" he chuckled.

"Why, of course I don't know yet," she responded; "but I shan't wait till I'm fifty years old."

"No, I guess you won't," he agreed.

The sound of light hoofs speeding down the street turned the attention from the weighty subject of marriage back to the Colonel himself.

"That isn't he, it's a little man," observed Polly.

"I knew it wasn't Lone Star's step," David replied. "Besides, he doesn't come home so early as this."

"Oh, say," Polly broke out in an undertone of excitement, "let's go up on Oregon Avenue! Maybe we should meet them!"

"I don't suppose they always go that way," mused David; "but it wouldn't do any harm to take a walk—"

"No, come on!" urged Polly, jumping up. "But I must lock the house first. Mother has a key."

"I'll help," volunteered David, following Polly into the front hall.

With windows and doors secure behind them, the two started for Oregon Avenue, Polly talking all the way.

"It was along here that you saw them, wasn't it?" she questioned softly, as if fearful that her voice might carry to the piazza parties that lined the pleasant street.

"Just about," David answered; "but it's lighter further on. There's a carriage block in front of that big gray house where you can sit down and rest."

"I'm not a bit tired," Polly insisted, yet to please David she sat dutifully on the stone indicated for at least three minutes; then she suddenly decided that it was too conspicuous, and they moved on up the avenue.

The night was warm and still. Occasionally a puff of cooler air would meet the children at some dusky driveway or odorous garden, and they would halt to enjoy it. From dark verandas and brilliant houses laughter and song floated out to them as they passed along. Altogether this stalking Colonel Gresham was rather a delightful affair, and sometimes in the pleasure of the moment their errand would be almost forgotten.

Not many carriages were abroad, and this was not one of the highways frequented by motor-cars. Every vehicle, therefore, claimed the children's attention. Far up the avenue, on a corner where an arc light cast fitful shadows over the intersecting roadways, they stopped to catch a breeze straying up from the harbor. Polly was blithely chattering.

"'Sh!" whispered David.

The sound of hoofs came faintly through the stillness.

"I believe it is!" Polly whispered back.

David nodded eagerly.

"Dear me, how that light bobs up and down!" Polly complained. "I hope it will be bright when they get here."

"Let's stand in the shadow!" David pulled her under a broad maple tree.

On came the hoofs, nearer, nearer. The light suddenly flared.

"Oh, goody!" exulted Polly.

"It is Lone Star!" whispered David.

The familiar horse appeared in the flickering circle of light. Behind him the form of a man and a woman were barely discernible—then utter darkness! Lone Star trotted by the discomfited two, and was gone. The light did not come back. The children clutched each other in silent disappointment. Polly was the first to find words.

"Wasn't that just mean?"

David laughed—a grim little laugh.

"Don't! It hurts. I'm too mad to laugh."

He chuckled. Then he grabbed Polly excitedly.

"Come on!" he cried.

"Where?" breathlessly hurrying along by his side.

"The avenue makes a big curve above here, before it gets to the fork, and we can go straight up this next street and head 'em off, maybe—they're going pretty slow."

"I don't b'lieve we can."

"We'll try it anyhow. You're not tired?"

"Oh, no!"

Racing over long stretches, slowing to catch breath, then running again,—thus the fork was finally reached. But no Lone Star or the thud of his feet greeted eyes or ears.

"I might have known we couldn't go as fast as Lone Star!" David exclaimed disgustedly.

"You don't s'pose they've gone up to Cherry Hill Park, do you?" questioned Polly. "It's just above here, you know."

"Perhaps. Want to try it?"

Of course she did, and on they trudged, taking note of neither time nor distance, until all at once Polly was conscious of weariness.

"It seems further afoot than in an automobile, doesn't it?" she laughed.

"Yes," nodded David; "but we're almost there. Wonder which road they'd be likely to take."

Polly could not even guess, so they followed the driveways at random, on, and on, and on.

There was no lack of company. Young men and women, walking cozily close; wandering lovers from over the sea, like children hand in hand; groups of laughing, chattering girls and boys;—all these, but never a Lone Star or a dignified Colonel with his possible sweetheart.

"Let's sit down and rest," proposed David. "You must be tired."

They dropped on a convenient bench, and Polly let go a sleepy little yawn.

"I don't believe there's any use in waiting round here," began David.

Polly did not reply. Her head was drooping.

The lad drew her gently to his shoulder.

"I guess—I was 'most—asleep," she said drowsily, and shut her eyes again.

The passers-by glanced curiously at the two on the bench. Soon there were few to look, then none at all.

David leaned his head against the slatted back. It was not an easy pillow, but it gave the needed relief, and he slept.

"David Collins, I b'lieve you're fast asleep!"

It roused the boy with a start. He gave a little shamefaced laugh.

"I don't see what made me do it," he apologized.

"Well, we'd better go home as quick as we can get there," decided Polly. "What time do you s'pose it is?"

Neither could tell, but presently a town clock struck ten.

"That isn't so bad as I thought," giggled Polly. "But what will the folks say!"

They hurried along the path, till, suddenly, David halted.

"Did we pass this big fountain?" he questioned abruptly.

"I—don't remember it," Polly faltered.

"We're on the wrong path," he hastily concluded. "Let's go back!"

They wheeled about, and were soon following a driveway that they were sure led to the park entrance. Yet they trudged on and on, and still the green expanse, dotted with trees, flower-beds, and shrubbery seemed to stretch endlessly before them.

"Seems 's if we ought to get somewhere pretty soon," observed Polly, a plaintive note in her voice.

David replied absently. He was thinking hard. Where was that big stone gateway? He strained his eyes in a vain endeavor to discern it in the distance.

"What if we couldn't find our way out, and they had to come and look for us!" pondered Polly. "Only they wouldn't know where to look!"

"Oh, we're not lost!" exclaimed David, in what he tried to make a fearless tone; but Polly, as well as he himself, knew it to be a fib, spoken only to hold their fast-going courage.

"Let's stop a minute, and see if we can't tell where we are," proposed Polly, just as if that were not what they had been doing, at brief intervals, ever since they had passed the unfamiliar fountain.

They had come to no satisfactory conclusion, and were still peering sharply into their surroundings, when Polly spied a figure in the path ahead.

"There's a boy!" she whispered. "We can ask him."

As the lad approached, something in his easy swing seemed familiar.

"It looks like—" began Polly—"why, it is! Oh, Cornelius!" she cried excitedly, as the light showed the unmistakable features of her friend of the convalescent ward. She sprang forward to greet him.

"Holy saints!" ejaculated Cornelius O'Shaughnessy. "However come you kids out here, this time o' night?"

They told their story in breathless snatches, omitting only what had brought them hither.

"Come f'r a walk, did ye!" sniffed Cornelius. "Wal, ye've had it sure! Now, see here! I've got to go over on North Second Street to git a receipt f'r some cake Cousin Ellen give my mother, or I'll ketch it when the show's out—that's where my mother is now! She says, the last thing, 'Cornelius, mind yer don't forgit to go up after that receipt, f'r I want to make th' cake in th' mornin'!' I says, 'Sure I won't!'—and I never thought of it again till just as I was goin' up to bed! It happened to pop into my head, and if I didn't hustle down those stairs! An' here I be! Now ye just sit down and wait, and I'll go 'long back wid ye."

The boy darted into the shadows and was lost. Polly and David felt more alone than before.

"Queer, we should meet him 'way out here, at this time!" David had lowered his voice, as if fearful of being overheard.

"He came just to find us," purred Polly. "What a nice boy he is!"

"Don't talk so loud!" cautioned David.

"He can't hear. He's too far away."

"Somebody might."

"There isn't anybody," she laughed, yet involuntarily she was obeying David's injunction.

They sat there on the bench what seemed a very long time, still Cornelius did not appear.

"Let's walk along a little way and meet him," proposed Polly.

The deserted park seemed vastly more lonely than an empty street. Polly kept up a soft chatter. David wished silently that Cornelius would come. The shrubbery that bordered the way made weird shadows along the path, and more than once David had to grip his courage in a hurry to keep from halting in the face of some grotesque shade. Queer little prickles crept up and down his legs. Why didn't Cornelius come!

"You're not afraid?" he whispered, as Polly clutched his arm more tightly in passing a clump of dogwoods.

"Oh, no!" she chirped contentedly, the harmless shadows behind them, "not with you!"

The boy's retreating courage came back. He felt himself grown suddenly taller and stronger. He walked forward with a firm, steady step.

"We mustn't go too far, or Cornelius might miss us," warned Polly. "There he is now!" as the straight little figure swung into sight.

The three had a merry walk home, notwithstanding the distance and the haunting fear in the hearts of two of them that there would be anxiety because of their unexplained absence. Cornelius insisted on accompanying them to within a block of home, and then he stood on the corner and watched them away.

Mrs. Dudley met them at the foot of the steps, both hands outstretched.

"Children! where have you been?"

Polly felt nearer than usual to a real reprimand, and she hurried to explain.

"We didn't mean to be gone so long, but we got lost in Cherry Hill Park—"

"Cherry Hill Park! What in the world started you up there this hot night?"

"Why, we went up on Oregon Avenue, and then thought we'd just go over to the park, and we got tired,—or I did,—and we sat down on a bench and went to sleep—both of us!" Polly giggled at the remembrance. "Then we couldn't tell which way to go, and Cornelius came along, and he had to do an errand for his mother, and we waited a good while for him—and that's why we didn't come before."

"Well, you have had a time! You'd better run right home, David, for your mother is worried. She supposed you were over here, and came to see what kept you."

"Is Uncle David home?" questioned the boy tentatively.

"I think she said not."

Polly's eyes and David's met in tacit understanding—the secret was Colonel Gresham's, and not to be spoken of. Then the boy whirled towards home.

"Good-night!" called Polly, and to the accompaniment of fleeting footfalls came the answering "Good-night!"



CHAPTER XVII

AT MIDVALE SPRINGS

Polly's worry about her father's reduced salary and the unpaid coal bill did not wholly leave her mind, but returned at intervals with ever renewing force. At these times she still wondered if she ought to have gone to live with Uncle Maurice; yet the thought of it brought such terror to her heart that she would resolutely turn from the picture, arguing that the time was past for accepting his offer, and that now, whatever the consequences, she must remain in the home she had chosen. She longed intensely to earn some money to help out the situation, thinking how delightful it would be to put ten dollars into her father's hand with the astonishing announcement that it was her very own to do with as she pleased. But, realizing her helplessness in this line, she would resolve again and again to eat as little as possible, and as far as she was able to insist on wearing her old clothes, and to protest against spending even precious pennies for the pretty things she so loved to wear. But it was the eating question that troubled her more than the dress, for her healthy appetite often tempted her into indulgences which she would afterwards regret.

One noon she so far forgot herself as to ask for a second helping of strawberry shortcake.

"Why," exclaimed her father playfully, "if you keep on at this rate, I shall have to charge you more for board!"

Polly looked up, dropped her fork, and covering her face with her hands broke into tears.

"Thistledown!" cried the Doctor.

"You foolish child!" laughed Mrs. Dudley. "You know father was only in fun!"

But Polly sobbed on, nor could she be induced to eat the piece of shortcake she had wanted.

Dr. Dudley and his wife were puzzled, but Polly did not make matters clearer, only refused to finish her dinner, insisting that she had had enough. Her mother coaxed, the Doctor all but commanded, yet she silently kept her trouble in her heart, and went miserably to school.

There Patricia met her with the announcement that she and her mother were going to Midvale Springs to spend the summer, having arranged to leave as soon as school should close.

"And we want you to go with us," Patricia went on with eager emphasis, passing her arm cozily around Polly's waist. "You and I can have a room together next to mamma's and it will be too lovely! I lay awake last night thinking of it."

"But I can't—" began Polly.

"You can, too!" contradicted Patricia. "You've got to! I won't let you do anything else! Now say yes right away—there's a dear!" she coaxed, pinching Polly's mouth with a thumb and forefinger, her favorite method of wheedling.

"Cousin Harold's coming for a visit pretty soon," evaded Polly. "I don't know what he would do if I shouldn't be here when he came."

"Huh!" scorned Patricia, "guess I shouldn't stay home for a boy! He can come some other time. I'm your cousin, and I want you, and I'm going to have you! You never do anything I ask you to, and I think you might just for this once!" she pouted.

"Why, Patty, I do everything I can to please you!" protested Polly.

The "Patty" won smiles. It was Patricia's favorite nickname, and she was always pleased when Polly used it.

"You're a darling!" she cooed. "You do everything lovely! And you'll do this for me—I know you will!" she ended archly.

Yet Polly was equally certain in her inmost heart that she should never go to Midvale. To be sure, she reasoned prudently, it would save her board at home, and that was to be desired, but, on the other hand, there must needs be new clothes for a summer's stay at the fashionable Springs, which would more than offset the gain. She would give Patricia no encouragement.

Mrs. Dudley looked with favor on the invitation, although saying she should allow Polly to do as she chose. The Doctor, too, welcomed the plan as a good one, thinking it would be just the change needed for the little girl, who was growing thin and pale. Still Polly held out against them all, and felt actually homesick to hear so much talk about it. If it had been going with Mrs. Collins and David, why, she would have considered the question. She loved David's sweet, girlish little mother; but of Mrs. Illingworth she had never been fond, and she wondered that her father and mother should wish her to go.

"I'd rather stay here and live on crackers—'thout any butter," she said miserably to herself, and she began to curtail her meals as much as discreetness and her appetite would allow.

It was only a week to the end of school, and Patricia had been urging her claims, to which Polly had paid small attention, having heard the same talk, with variations, for the last fortnight. But all at once the half-listener grew interested. What was Patricia saying?

"If you'll only go for just one month I'll give you fifty dollars!"

"Your mother wouldn't let you," argued Polly.

"She would, too!" Patricia declared. "Guess I can do what I want to with my own money! Oh, say, will you go? Will you?"

"Maybe," yielded Polly. "I don't know. I've got to think it over. I do want some money, and I was wishing I could earn some—"

"Oh, then you will! you will! you will!" cried Patricia gleefully. "This is just your chance! Why didn't you tell me before? Oh, I'm so glad I want to stand on my head!"

"I haven't said yet that I'd go," laughed Polly; "only maybe I would."

"But you will! I know the signs!"—and Polly was grabbed in an uncomfortable hug.

Dr. Dudley and his wife were pleased at the turn affairs had taken, although they wondered at Polly's sudden change of mind. Of the offer that was the sole cause of it Polly said nothing. What a joyful surprise it would be when she should come home a month hence with sufficient money to pay the haunting coal bill! The anticipated pleasure of that moment kept her resolution steady.

Yet at times Polly was so sober in the midst of the preparations for her going that her mother would turn to her with searching eyes, and wonder how she had lost her usual blitheness.

"You are not doing this just to please Patricia?" she asked one twilight, stopping in her task of packing Polly's small trunk to catch her in her arms and hold her solemn little face towards the window.

"Oh, no!" was the tremulous assertion; "I'm not going for Patricia's sake at all—that is, of course, I'm glad to please her; but I want to go! Only I guess"—her eyes filled—"I'm a little lovesick for you and father!"

Mrs. Dudley smiled.

"I know!" she nodded. "I've been homesick beforehand."

"Have you?" Polly brightened. "And did it go off?"

"Oh, yes, after a while!"

"Then I guess I shall get over it soon as I'm really there," she said bravely. "I wouldn't give it up for anything!"

Yet the end of the pleasant all-day's journey found Polly looking forward to her promised month with a vague uneasiness. She half wished she had confided in her mother and had let her decide. While listening to Patricia's happy chatter, she wondered whether she had done right in coming, arguing the question back and forth; still so secretly did she carry on her own line of thought that merry Patricia never guessed she was not holding Polly's entire attention.

In the morning things looked different. The charming little village of Midvale Springs, dropped so cozily among the Vermont hills, won Polly's heart at first daylight glance. If father and mother were there, too! But even with the knowledge that they were hundreds of miles away the early days of her visit were spent very happily. There was so much to see, new faces at every turn, merry playmates at all hours, straw rides and barn frolics, beautiful drives alongside tumbling brooks and through deep mountain gorges,—Polly's letters home told of these unfamiliar scenes and pleasures. Mrs. Dudley said to herself that the homesickness must have passed with the journey.

Polly had been at the Springs but a week when she was one of a party to spend the day at Lazy Lake, twenty miles distant. On her return, in the early twilight, a small figure popped out of the dusk to give her a frantic embrace.

"Harold!" she exclaimed, recovering wits and breath together. "Where did you come from?"

"Fair Harbor," promptly answered the unabashed boy. "Couldn't find anybody home at your house, and that feller next door—what's his name?—"

"David Collins?"

"Yes, David—he said you were up here, so I came right along."

At first it was a problem to know how to dispose of the rash little lad; but by dint of certain shifts a room in the hotel was finally provided for him, and he fitted very happily into the gay life there.

The next week another surprise came to Polly, and it was even greater than the advent of Harold.

An automobile had gone to the nearest station, ten miles away, to meet the evening train and fetch back some new boarders—so much the children knew; but as this was not an unusual occurrence they only wondered mildly if there would be any boys or girls among the coming guests. They had finished their last game of tennis, and were lounging on the piazza steps, when the hotel car was sighted up the dusty road.

"We'd better scoot," advised Carl Webster, "or some of the new folks may agree with old Mrs. Chatterton, that they 'never did see such a raft o' young ones!'"

The imitation of the fidgety little woman's voice and manner was so complete that the others broke into laughter; but nobody moved.

The car was slowing up, and Polly, turning carelessly to look, gave a little cry of astonishment. Then, to the surprise of the rest, she darted down the steps.

"Ilga!—Miss Price!"—her words stopped short, for Ilga was on her feet—was stepping forward! Her face matched her joyful greeting.

In a minute Patricia was there, asking excited questions and begging the invalid to be careful.

"As if I were not crawling!" laughed Ilga. "Oh, it does seem so splendid to walk! I've got lots of messages for you, Polly. Your father came to the station to see me off—just think of that! Wasn't it lovely of him? And your mother made me a long call yesterday! I wouldn't let anybody tell you a thing about my coming—I wanted to surprise you! You were surprised, weren't you?" she queried anxiously.

"I'm so surprised I can't think," laughed Polly. "Did you know it when I came away—that you were coming, too?"

"We'd just spoken of it, hadn't we, Miss Price? It wasn't a bit sure then. I was wild to come—just wild!" Ilga dropped into the easy chair placed for her, and drew a long, happy breath.

"Aren't you awfully tired?" questioned Patricia.

"Oh, I guess not!—I don't know. I only know I'm here and it's beautiful! Father and mother are coming next week; won't that be grand?"

So the pleasant talk went on, until Miss Price carried her patient away to supper and rest.

Merry days followed. Polly, remembering the old Ilga and her few school friends, looked delightedly upon the popularity which this subdued, humbled girl was winning. Once such attention might have incited her to overbearing conduct; now it seemed only to make her fairly beam with good-fellowship and happiness. "And she actually loves father!" Polly would smilingly tell herself, secretly rejoicing in the fact; but she rarely spoke of the change even to Patricia. It was enough that the miracle had been wrought. It did not need to be passed about in words.

Although somewhat against his father's wishes, Harold remained for the week which he had started to spend in Fair Harbor; but all his pleading could not make the grudging consent cover a longer time.

With tears in his eyes he bade Polly good-bye.

"If you were only going, too!" he whispered. "Come on, Polly—do!"

"Why, you know I can't!" she returned, half laughingly, half sadly.

He muttered an exulting reply that she could not quite catch, and then the train came, and he was hustled away, leaving Polly to wonder what he had said.

"It was something about what he was going to do when he was grown up," she mused. "I don't see why he should talk of that now—and here!"

On her return to the hotel, she ran over to the croquet ground that skirted the opposite side of the road. A game was in progress, and for the time Harold faded into the past. Patricia being called to the house, Polly took her place, and she was driving a ball to the last stake when somebody cried out:—

"There's your cousin! What's he coming back for?"

Polly glanced up, to see Harold grinning and waving to her jubilantly.

He jumped from the car as it slowed, and came to meet her.

"How did you get here? I s'posed you were on the way to New York!"

"Had an accident," he answered cheerfully,—"just below the station, and the track was so blocked up they said we couldn't get along in hours. I wasn't going to stay fooling round there, you bet! I said, wasn't there an auto somewhere that could bring us back to the hotel, and a man asked me what hotel 'twas and all about it up here, and he and another man said they'd get an auto if there was one to be had. So they did—and here I am!"

He wagged his head gleefully.

"I never saw such a boy for pouncing in on people!" laughed Ilga. "But I'm awfully glad you've come. Was there anybody hurt?"

"Yes, some of 'em. No one killed, they said. 'Twas a mighty big smash-up, though! My! you'd 'a' thought the whole world was going to pieces when we came together! And we hadn't been started much more'n two minutes! Our car tilted over, and I climbed out through the window! I didn't even get a scratch."

"Don't let's talk about it," begged Polly. "I'm so glad you aren't hurt."

"Yes," agreed Harold; "but I'd 'a' come back here all the same if I had been, and then pop would 'a' had to let me stay."

The children laughed, all but Polly. She said, with a little pucker of the brows:—

"What a boy!"

Later, as they went up to the hotel, she glanced towards the broad piazza, now dotted with men and women, and her eyes widened in amazement.

"Why, there's Mr. Morrow!"

"Who's he?" queried Harold indifferently.

"Chris Morrow's father—don't you know? The one that gave me the pansy pin."

"Oh! Where is he?"

"Over there by the post, right next to the girl in light pink."

"That's the man I came up with! But his name isn't Morrow—it's Winship. He said so."

"Well, it looks just like him anyway," insisted Polly. "Perhaps it isn't," she added disappointedly.

Before they reached the piazza steps, the stranger arose and went inside.

"It doesn't walk like Mr. Morrow," admitted Polly. "But I wish he'd stayed, I wanted to see him nearer."

For several days, however, no opportunity came for observing the man at close range. In the big dining-hall, even if he chanced to be there at the same time, he sat the entire length of the room away from her, and they did not meet elsewhere. Then, one morning, at a turn of the long piazza, they chanced to come face to face, and Polly, struck by his remarkable resemblance to the father of her friend, could not forbear to speak.

"I beg your pardon," she began, half afraid now that she had actually started, "but aren't you Mr. Morrow,—the one I used to see at the hospital in Fair Harbor?"

A puzzled look swept the man's face. Then he smiled.

"I think you are mistaken, little lady. My name is Winship, Bradford Winship of New York."

"You look almost exactly like him," returned Polly, even now refusing to be quite convinced, although there was not a trace of recognition in the smiling face she was scanning.

"I seem to have two or three doubles around the country," he remarked. "I am continually being taken for somebody or other. Sorry not to have had the previous pleasure of your acquaintance, but I hope that we may follow up the little we have made."

He left her with a deferential bow, and she ran to tell Patricia and Ilga of her blunder. How Harold would have laughed! But he had left for home as soon as it had been ascertained that the trains were running on time.

The next day, returning to her apartment for a light wrap, after the evening meal, Mrs. Illingworth passed her dressing-table, and stared in amazement. The girls, in their room, heard her peremptory call.

"Patty, have you been meddling with my jewel cases again?"

"No, mamma, I haven't touched them," she answered comfortably.

"Are you sure? Think! Come here quick!"

Patricia sprang to obey. Her mother's voice was tense and sharp. More than once she had made free to appropriate necklaces and bracelets for her own adornment in plays with the children, but this time she was quite innocent of any misbehavior.

"Why!—why!" she gasped, gazing, big-eyed, at the beautiful empty cases, "where are all your jewels? I haven't taken a single thing! Have I, Polly? We were playing tennis early, and then we went to ride, you know. Why, what could—"

But Mrs. Illingworth waited for no more; dashing from the room, she hurried to the office to report her loss.

She was only one of many. While supper was in progress the rooms of the guests had been rifled of money and jewelry to the amount of thousands of dollars. The thief had entered the apartments by means of a skeleton key, for most of the doors had been locked.

"Oh, I wonder if he took my lovely coral bracelet!" cried Patricia, who had followed her mother downstairs.

The girls scampered back, to find their fears true. Patricia's pretty bits of jewelry, as well as Polly's pansy pin, were gone. They were distressed over their loss, but their excitement was a small part of that throughout the hotel.

The authorities were not long in placing the charge. The men who had accompanied Harold from the railway wreck had vanished, and although they were traced to a neighboring town, there they seemed to be utterly lost.

Perhaps nobody grieved more than did Polly.

"And the man was so pleasant to me!" she mourned. "To think he should go and steal my pretty pin—Chris's present!"

The occurrence actually made her homesick, and she longed for the day when her month should be up. It had been arranged for her to travel in company with an elderly gentleman who must pass through Fair Harbor on his way home, and she would have hoped that his business would hasten his going, only that she had promised the entire month in return for the fifty dollars.

The day was finally set, but nothing was said about the price of her visit, and Polly grew anxious and perturbed. What if Patricia had forgotten! What if she should not get the money after all! To be sure, the month had been for the most part pleasant, still the loss of her precious pin was enough to make her hate the name of Midvale Springs. Now if she had gained not even the amount of the coal bill by coming! By the last night Polly was in a fever; she could not sleep, while her irresponsible bedfellow lay beside her like a little log.

Shortly before breakfast, Polly, dressed for her journey, appeared in Mrs. Illingworth's room, and with a pleasant good-morning was on her way to the hall, when the lady stopped her.

"Wait a moment, dear!"

Polly turned, to see Patricia's mother opening her purse. Her heart leaped in sudden joy. She had been blaming Patricia for neglect, but now she silently begged her pardon.

"Run and get your hand-bag," Mrs. Illingworth smiled, "I want to put something into it."

Polly fetched it gladly.

"There is fifty dollars, a little present from Patty and me, and I hope you will have as much pleasure in spending it as we have in giving."

Polly thanked her, and then added:—

"I wouldn't take it, as I told Patricia before I came, only that I want the money for a very special purpose."

Mrs. Illingworth's eyes narrowed, as was their habit in surprise, and she started to speak; but Polly was going innocently on, and the lady glanced keenly at her daughter, who was standing transfixed in the door of her room.

"I was wishing I could earn some," Polly was saying, "when Patty offered this if I would come for a month; so it happened just right. I thank you ever so much, and for my lovely visit beside."

It is doubtful if either the mother or daughter heard much of Polly's grateful little speech. Patricia's face burned with shame at her forgetfulness, and she wondered what her mother would say as soon as Polly was out of hearing.

As for Polly she went blithely on her way, never dreaming that by fortunate chance Mrs. Illingworth's gift came to cover up a bit of negligence.

Fair Harbor was not reached until evening. To Polly's surprise, her father was not at the station. Her letter, she reasoned, could not have been received. But the road was well-known and the hour was not late, so she took the way to Lady Gay Cottage with a light heart.

The house was dark. Neither father nor mother was on the piazza, as Polly had hoped they would be. She was eager to feel their arms around her. She pushed the bell-button again and again, but there was no answer. It was dismally dark at Colonel Gresham's, too, and not the murmur of a voice came to her as she listened.

"They are all out riding, probably," she explained to herself discouragedly. It was a lonesome home-coming indeed. She walked slowly over to the hammock, and dropped into it. Anyway she was at home—that was a comfort.

"And they'll come pretty soon," she thought gladly. "They never stay out late."

She was tired, after her long day on the hot, dusty train. She leaned wearily back among the soft cushions. Yes, home was the best place in the whole world.

Two hours later an automobile stopped at Lady Gay Cottage. Dr. Dudley and his wife stepped out, there were good-nights, then the two went up to the house together.

"Going in?" queried the Doctor. "Guess I'll stay out here awhile, it is too pleasant to go to bed."

He unlocked the door, and then, left to himself, went over to the dark corner where the hammock swung. There he suddenly stopped, with a soft ejaculation.

The sleeper did not stir.

Putting his hand gently under her neck, he thought to take her in his arms. How surprised she would be when she awoke! But she spoiled his plan by suddenly opening her eyes.

With a glad cry she nestled her head on his shoulder. How dear it was to be home again! Mother heard the voices, and came out, which meant more kisses and happy greetings.

Polly was talking fast and eagerly about the exciting events of her visit, when she thought of the money in her purse.

"Oh, I forgot!" she broke off, and dived into her little hand-bag.

"There," she said, her voice low and tense, "is the money to pay the coal bill! Mrs. Illingworth—I mean Patricia—gave it to me for going with her."

"But, Thistledown," objected the Doctor whimsically, "that coal bill was paid long ago,—besides—"

"Oh, dear," she broke in, "I wanted to pay it myself! I wanted to help you!" She hid her face against his coat. "I wouldn't have gone only for that. Patty said she'd give me fifty dollars if I would."

In a flash Dr. Dudley saw it all,—her sudden turn regarding the summer trip, her brave fight with homesickness. Involuntarily his arms tightened around her. Must he make her feel that her sacrifice had been in vain?

"You say that Patricia gave you the money when you came away?"

"No, father, it was Mrs. Illingworth that gave it to me—this morning. She said it was a present from both of them. But Patty had promised it to me."

"I understand. Well, there are other ways, Thistledown, where your money can help, if you wish. You know we have not used our 'wedding' car for a good while, because I haven't been able to spare enough for a needed tire. Now, if you like, you shall buy the new tire, and then we will have some rides. How will that do?"

"Oh, splendid!" she cried. "I'm so glad! I did want to help! I was afraid for a minute that you were not going to let me keep the money; but a present has to be kept, doesn't it? Only this wasn't exactly a present, if she did call it so. I'm glad you didn't mean that." She drew a long, satisfied breath.

The Doctor smiled across at his wife over Polly's curls, and her eyes told him he had decided in the wisest way.

They were still talking when Colonel Gresham and his family drove in.

Polly called a cheery, "Hullo, David!" and then, of course, they all had to come over and tell her how glad they were to see her.

It was late before the mother could get her nestling snug for the night; but Polly was at home again, and nobody cared.



CHAPTER XIX

TWO LETTERS

A week after Polly's return, Lady Gay Cottage was sold. Polly brought the news from Colonel Gresham's, the Colonel having heard it downtown.

"Now what shall we do?" she questioned, atop of the announcement. "Colonel Gresham says we can all come over there."

Dr. Dudley laughed. So did his wife, but she grew grave almost at once.

"Very likely we can stay on just the same," was the Doctor's cheerful opinion. "Martin Clapp isn't going to give up his new home and move his family in here; so don't worry about it."

It was as Dr. Dudley prophesied, the tenants could remain, but with this difference,—the rent was raised five dollars a month. The Doctor made light of it; still Polly knew by her mother's face that it would mean a harder pinch on other things.

If only they hadn't bought that new tire! It was delightful to be riding again in the Colonel's beautiful present, yet the shadow that often she detected on her mother's face she attributed to this new trouble, and it worried her. What made it worse, she worried in secret. The thought intruded while she was playing with Leonora and David, it haunted her dreams by night. She began to wonder again if she ought to have gone to live with Uncle Maurice. The question was still undecided when something occurred that seemed to make matters clearer.

She had been up to Mrs. Jocelyn's and was returning home late in the afternoon. As she came in view of the hospital she noticed a small boy standing by the gate. On nearer approach the lad's delicate profile grew familiar, and suddenly she darted forward, crying joyfully:—

"Chris! Oh, Chris!"

He turned weakly, took a step to meet her, and then throwing out his hands dropped to the sidewalk.

With a little scream, Polly was down beside him, moaning:—

"Oh, he's dead! he's dead!"

But in a moment, to her relief, his eyes opened, and he murmured, "Polly!"

A physician, driving up to the hospital entrance, took the boy in his arms, and carried him inside.

The office was empty, but presently Dr. Dudley returned to find a patient on his couch, and Polly acting as nurse.

"Daddy's gone away," the lad explained, "and he sent word to have me come right up here and see you. I've got a letter"—fumbling for the inner pocket of his coat. Finally, with Polly's help, he brought forth a closely sealed envelope directed to Dr. Dudley.

The physician laid it aside until his patient could be made more comfortable, and at once administered a light restorative.

Chris had not been well for a good while, he admitted, and had been separated from "daddy" much of the time since leaving Fair Harbor. In the brief little note that had come to him, his father had not said where he was going, but as business would be likely to keep him away for some months he directed him to come to Dr. Dudley and deliver the letter in person.

"Yes, we will have him up in the convalescent ward," the physician replied, in response to Polly's question, and he stepped to the telephone, to order a bed prepared for him at once.

Polly saw a shadow of anxiety on the pale little face, and began to reassure him.

"It is lovely up there, and you'll get well right away and have such good times. I'm over here every day, sometimes two or three times a day—I shall be now to see you."

And so the lonely heart was comforted.

The day was full of work for Dr. Dudley, and Mr. Morrow's letter stayed unopened in his pocket until his evening rounds had been made. In his first leisure moment, he cut the envelope and skimmed the closely written pages. He read them twice before he laid them down. Then, leaning back in his chair, he pondered the strange situation. Finally he took up the letter and read it through again. It bore neither date nor address nor signature, and began abruptly.

DEAR DOCTOR,—

Here I am!—up for two years, and God only knows what will become of my boy! He is, as you know, an abnormally sensitive child, who will grieve for "daddy" to the breaking of his heart, unless you open your heart and home and take him in. You were good to him once, and he loves you and your Polly. I am sure he would be happy with you. Will you do this kindness for me? No, not for me,—a man who has not the slightest claim upon you and who would not deserve it if he had,—but for the sake of his angel mother, for the sake of the poor little kid himself, perhaps you will not refuse.

Chris does not know where I am, and he must not be told,—he must never know. When my two years are up, we will go somewhere and begin life all over again. I have had enough of this infernal business, and am going to live straight as soon as I get another chance. In the six years I have been at it I have been lucky, many times slipping out of the very teeth of the law, until they called me "Slippery 'Chard." I thought I was smart enough to elude anybody; but this last job was my undoing. My partner was too fond of talk and whiskey—he gave us away easy, and we're both out of it for these two years. I ought to have known better than to take him on.

It cut me up to have to lie to your little girl when she recognized me at Midvale—I guess I deserve all that's coming to me! I'm sorry about that pin Chris gave to Polly. The other fellow went through those rooms, and, of course, took the pansy with the rest. I knew it soon as I spied it, and was going to send it back to her; but they didn't give me time enough, and now it is gone. Perhaps you will think it is just as well, for it was swiped to start with. Buy her another, something pretty, and I'll foot the bill. You needn't be afraid of the money—it is as honest as yours. It was left the boy by his mother, and I have never touched it, so there's quite a neat little sum now. Charge me whatever you please for the kid's board. I'm willing to leave it to you, and I will see that you are paid promptly every month. If you'll only take care of him, and bring him up right, and not let him know that his father is a criminal, I will bless you to my last breath—as if my blessing could be worth anything to such a man as you! Well, the best it is you shall have it, and that is all I can do. If it hadn't been for Chris and his faith in me I should have gone to hell long ago—I've been down to the gates, as it was. It isn't the fault of my rearing,—my folks were all right, they trained me, they educated me, they loved me. I am the first to sully the name, but I've kept the name itself out of the mud as much as possible. Write to Peter Connell, New York, and I shall get the word.

Think what it would mean to you to be shut away from your little girl, never to look on her for two long years, with no decent friend to care for her—and then keep my little Chris! Oh, Doctor, keep him, and don't let him know about me!

Good-bye.

Richard Morrow was wise when in his extremity he turned to Dr. Dudley. The Doctor's heart was big and always ready to open its door to anybody in distress of body or mind. Of course, little Chris stayed—at the hospital until he was strong again, then in the physician's own home.

The lad grieved for his father, Polly often finding him in some obscure corner reading over with tears his latest note from "daddy."

"I can't make it seem right that he doesn't come to see me just once," he complained to Polly. "I should think he might get away from his business for a little tiny while,—ten minutes or so,—even if he went back on the next train. It isn't a bit like daddy,—not a single bit!"

And Polly, able to understand it no better than he, would strive to comfort him.

Sometimes Mrs. Dudley wondered if, after all, it would not have been really kinder to tell the little lad the truth.

Nothing was said to Polly about the boy's board, and this gave her an additional anxiety. He had now the appetite of a young convalescent who was rapidly gaining strength, and Polly watched his plate at mealtime with dismay in her heart. She would zealously try to curb her own appetite, but found it a difficult task, and finally, in desperation, she made a weightier decision, and then ate what she pleased and as much, as seemed proper for the short time that remained. For, at last, after days of argument with herself, when both sides of the question were, as she honestly believed, fairly dealt with, Polly concluded to write to Uncle Maurice.

The time had been set for a Wednesday morning, but was postponed until afternoon, and then three o'clock came before Polly went about it. Chris had proposed going over to the convalescent ward for a little visit; but Polly was in no visiting mood, so she had allowed him to go alone.

Slowly she mounted the stairs to her own room. Even now she was tempted to put off writing until to-morrow. Perhaps so long afterwards Uncle Maurice would not be ready to welcome her. But in her heart she knew this was false reasoning, and with a catch in her breath she sat down by her small writing desk, and pulled out paper and envelopes.

It was some minutes before she started to write.

DEAR UNCLE MAURICE,—

I thought when you were here and when I was in New York that I could never accept your invitation to come and live with you. But I have changed my mind—no, I have not exactly changed my mind, because I don't want to go as bad as ever—

"I'm afraid that isn't very polite," Polly thought ruefully, drew a deep sigh, and took a fresh sheet.

DEAR UNCLE MAURICE,—

When you were here, last spring, I thought I could not ever come to live with you, but now it seems best for me to accept your invitation. Perhaps you don't want me by this time, and if you don't, please say so, because it won't make any difference to me—I mean I shall be glad not—

Polly stopped suddenly. That would never do. She put the sheet aside, and began anew.

DEAR UNCLE MAURICE,—

I wonder if you still want me to come and live with you. Because if you do, I will—

At the fatal word, Polly's lip quivered, her pen turned, and a big splash of ink fell right in the middle of the fair page. She didn't care. There were other splashes, too. Tears were sprinkling the paper and blotting her lines.

"Oh, I—can't go!—I can't!—I can't!" she sobbed softly.

Presently she grew quiet, courage came back, determination strengthened. She began again to write. But tears brimmed her eyes and spoilt the letter once more. It was disheartening work.

At last the sorry words were down, and Polly felt that all happiness for this world was over.

"I hope I shall die quick," she said to herself. "Then I can go and live with mamma."

She swallowed hard. Even the prospect of Heaven was poor consolation just now.

With great painstaking she directed the envelope and placed the stamp. She could not bring herself to seal it; that could wait until the last moment. It seemed to her she should then be irrevocably bound to do the thing she had promised. It would be the final link in this dreadful chain.

A passing glance in the small mirror sent her to bathe her hot, tear-stained face before venturing down to the letter-box on the corner. She dallied with the towel until there was no further excuse, she brushed her hair into unaccustomed smoothness; finally she went slowly over to her little desk, and took up the envelope, at last sealing it hurriedly, lest her courage should utterly fail. She would slip out to the letter-box, and have the miserable business done with as soon as possible.

She had reached the door, her hand on the knob, when she heard a step in the corridor—her mother's step. She halted guiltily, with quick intuition thrusting the letter behind her.

"Polly! are you here? May I come in?"

Hesitantly Polly opened the door.

"Hurry off your dress, dear! Mrs. Jocelyn has sent for us to come up to dinner. She says she has been trying to get us by telephone for the last hour."

"Chris is over at the hospital," volunteered Polly, slyly slipping her letter, face down, under her glove-box before running to fetch a fresh white frock.

"No, he has just come home with me," Mrs. Dudley replied. "He said he couldn't persuade you to go out this afternoon. Don't you feel well? Your cheeks are flushed,—and your pulse is a little quick," her fingers on the small wrist.

"Oh, I'm all right!" insisted Polly, forcing a smile, and pulling away, to guard against further questioning.

Why should this invitation have come just now—to make it harder, oh, so much harder, for her to leave them all!



CHAPTER XX

MRS. JOCELYN'S DINNER-PARTY

Leonora met Polly at the door, slipping ahead of the maid to catch her in an ecstatic embrace, and to let go a joyful whisper in her ear.

"Come right up to my room! I've got something lovely to tell you!"

Leonora's face was so radiant that Polly was all at once reminded of that morning at the hospital when she had first heard of her friend's adoption. What could have happened now to make her look like that?

"Say," began Leonora, bubbling with news, "Colonel Gresham and David and his mother are here!"

Polly's eyes grew big, and her lips puckered into a "Why!" of astonishment.

"And, oh, there's lots more!" went on Leonora mysteriously. "But I'm not to tell! I promised mother I wouldn't—only just that. You'd know it anyway when you go down. Oh, Polly Dudley, I'm so tickled—there! mother told me not to say that word again!—well, happy, I mean, only it doesn't sound so perfectly splendid as I feel. It seems as if I couldn't stand it!"

"I can't imagine what it is," mused Polly wonderingly.

At which Leonora whirled her round and round in a rapturous hug, stopping suddenly to say they must go downstairs.

After Polly had greeted her hostess and the other guests, she found that a conversation was going on about the hospital.

"Yes," the Doctor was saying, "we need more room, especially for children. We had to refuse two little girls yesterday and a boy the day before; there was absolutely no place where we could put them."

"Then you think there is demand for a children's hospital in the city?" asked Mrs. Jocelyn tentatively.

"A big demand," the Doctor smiled.

"I'm glad to hear that," was the quiet reply, "for I wish to build one."

Polly sat up straight and still, her astonished eyes fixed on Mrs. Jocelyn.

"You could hardly put your money to better use," responded Dr. Dudley.

"So I think; but I wanted your opinion before going further. I have the refusal of the Beecher property west of me; that will give me the whole block. My plan is to put up two buildings, one on each side of my house,—a little to the rear, so as not to cut off the sunlight,—and let this be the connecting link. The head physician can live here, and both parts will be easy of access—what do you say?"

"Admirable plan," agreed the Doctor. "But, Mrs. Jocelyn, have you estimated the cost? There'll be practically no end to the expense of keeping up such an establishment."

"I don't care anything about that," was the indifferent reply. "There's plenty to draw from." Her face was suddenly swept by a shadow of sadness. "For a long time I have wanted to do something in memory of Lloyd,—something for children,—and this seems to be the most feasible of any plan I've thought of. I don't want it called a hospital either. There is a prejudice among a certain class against the very name. Some people will let their children die, rather than send them to a hospital. So Leonora and I have been choosing—what do you think of this, 'The Children's House of Joy'?"

"Isn't that perfectly beautiful?" whispered Leonora to Polly, catching her hand with a little squeeze.

And so Polly missed her father's answer; but she knew from the comments of the others that it must have been in favor of the proposed name.

"This brings us to another question," resumed the hostess. "Dr. Dudley, do you know of a suitable man for the head of 'The House of Joy'?"

"I do," was the instant reply. "His name came to me a moment ago,—Dr. Lanier. You probably know him by reputation. He is the man you ought to have; there is no better surgeon in the country, and he has specialized on diseases of children. I think, too, he can be induced to come."

"Have you his address?"

The Doctor drew a package of papers from an inner pocket, and ran them through. Then he dived into a second pocket, finally stopping at a card which he handed his questioner.

"I will call him up," she decided, and disappeared in the hallway.

For a while the low sound of a voice filled up the spaces of desultory talk in the library. Then Mrs. Jocelyn came back, her eyes so sparkling that Polly thought she knew what the answer had been.

"Don't everybody ask the same question!" laughed the lady, pausing mischievously to note the inquiring faces. "If you wish to know whether he is coming, I will tell you. I didn't invite him! I didn't intend to invite him! I only wished to talk over some few little essentials—such as salary and so on. No," she continued impressively, meeting the Doctor's mystified expression with a knowing smile, "I don't want Dr. Lanier for the head of 'The House of Joy,' however suited he may be for the place. I have set my heart on another, a younger man, but one equally well fitted for the position. He is modest of his attainments, yet he is already being sought for outside of his own city. He has made a specialty of children's diseases, and has been wonderfully successful in his field of work. I know he would make the new hospital indeed a House of Joy to thousands of little ones. I am speaking of Dr. Robert Dudley, for he is the man I want, and if I cannot have him I won't build any hospital!"

Everybody had turned towards the Doctor, who sat motionless in the sudden hush, the color brightening in his face, his eyes bent on the arm of his chair. Then he looked up.

"My dear Mrs. Jocelyn," he began,—and Polly afterwards confided to David that his voice sounded so queer and shaky, she was afraid he was going to cry,—"you have paid me the greatest honor that—"

"Didn't I tell you there was something perfectly splendid?" whispered Leonora softly, in Polly's ear, unable to keep still a moment longer. "I knew it all the time! I knew she wanted him! And that isn't all! Oh, my!—no!"

The most of the Doctor's little speech was quite lost to Polly, for when Leonora stopped, everybody seemed to be talking at once. Then, in a flash, Polly connected two things,—the position her father was to have and the "salary" of which Mrs. Jocelyn had talked with the great surgeon. There would be no more "pinch,"—what need would there be of her going to Uncle Maurice? And the letter wasn't mailed! She wanted to jump up and shout it at the top of her voice. But instead she stole across to her father, and slipped her hand in his. Then, suddenly, her throat ached with the joy of it all, and she was close to tears, keeping them back only by a mighty effort.

"Polly! Polly! come here quick!" called Leonora.

And Polly went, just as Mrs. Jocelyn was saying:—

"No, I shall not need my house any longer. Thirty years ago David Gresham and I had a quarrel, and we think thirty years is quite long enough for a quarrel to last,—too long, in fact!—so we have made up, as the children say. I shall be very glad to leave all the worry of housekeeping to Mrs. Collins, for I am tired of it."

At this moment she arose to greet a gentleman who was entering the room. Polly recognized him as the Rector of St. Paul's, and before she realized what was going on, Mrs. Jocelyn and Colonel Gresham were standing together, and the marriage ceremony was in progress.

"What do you think now? Aren't you awfully surprised?" bubbled the irrepressible Leonora, as the first congratulations were spoken. "We're coming to live next to you, right in the house with David, and Colonel Gresham will be my father!"

It was after the informal dinner, when the Colonel had the four around him,—Polly and Leonora on either knee, and David and Chris each on an arm of his chair,—that the "lovely thing," as Leonora called it, happened.

"Polly, I'm going to have some roses on my piazza next summer," declared the Colonel, "and I reckon I'll let my quartette pick them out for me."

"I shall choose Silver Moons," decided Polly at once.

"I will be ready for them, thorns and all," he laughed. "But there are no thorns on these roses," taking from his pocket four small jewel-cases of bright blue leather.

The children opened them eagerly. Polly's and Leonora's contained gold rings exactly alike and of exquisite workmanship, a little rose spray encircling the top, and in the heart of the open flower a tiny spark of dew. The boys' scarf-pins were of similar design, being headed by a miniature full-blown rose.

"I can never thank you enough for all the beautiful things you give me," purred Polly, caressing the ring on her finger.

"But think what you have done for me!" exclaimed the Colonel. "You have let me into the secret of the rose and the thorn."

THE END



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The heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. The man was fine, clean, fresh from the West. It is a story of strength and passion.

WINDS OF THE WORLD

Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Sturgess and inherits millions, but not happiness. Then at last—but we must leave that to Ruby M. Ayres to tell you as only she can.

THE SECOND HONEYMOON

In this story the author has produced a book which no one who has loved or hopes to love can afford to miss. The story fairly leaps from climax to climax.

THE PHANTOM LOVER

Have you not often heard of someone being in love with love rather than the person they believed the object of their affections? That was Esther! But she passes through the crisis into a deep and profound love.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



EMERSON HOUGH'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE COVERED WAGON

An epic story of the Great West from which the famous picture was made.

THE WAY OF A MAN

A colorful romance of the pioneer West before the Civil War.

THE SAGEBRUSHER

An Eastern girl answers a matrimonial ad. and goes out West in the hills of Montana to find her mate.

THE WAY OUT

A romance of the feud district of the Cumberland country.

THE BROKEN GATE

A story of broken social conventions and of a woman's determination to put the past behind her.

THE WAY TO THE WEST

Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett and Kit Carson figure in this story of the opening of the West.

HEART'S DESIRE

The story of what happens when the railroad came to a little settlement in the far West.

THE PURCHASE PRICE

A story of Kentucky during the days after the American Revolution.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

CHARLES REX

The struggle against a hidden secret and the love of a strong man and a courageous woman.

THE TOP OF THE WORLD

Tells of the path which leads at last to the "top of the world," which it is given to few seekers to find.

THE LAMP IN THE DESERT

Tells of the lamp of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to final happiness.

GREATHEART

The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul.

THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE

A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance."

THE SWINDLER

The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith.

THE TIDAL WAVE

Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false.

THE SAFETY CURTAIN

A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other long stories of equal interest.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.

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