"When can he come down in our ward?" she questioned.

"Very soon, if he keeps on improving as fast as he has lately."

As they halted at the foot of the stairs, the Doctor looked at his watch.

"Tired?" he queried.

"Not a bit," she laughed.

"Then we'll keep on," he smiled, taking her hand again. "There is a lady I'd like you to see, one of my private patients."

"A young lady?"

"She has white hair."

"Oh, an old lady!"

"She is older than you and I."

"We are not old at all."

"And we never will grow old, will we?" twinkled the Doctor.

"We shall have to, if we live long enough."

"No, we won't; we'll always keep young."

Polly was laughing, as they entered a corridor in an "L" of the main building, a part of the hospital with which she was not familiar; but she grew grave instantly, for the Doctor paused at a door, and she realized that here was the lady they had come to see.

The introduction over, Polly found herself facing a worn little woman, with weary gray eyes, who looked more small and frail in contrast with the great oaken chair in which she was pillowed. Mrs. Jocelyn, the Doctor had called her, and Polly like the sound of the name; but she was not yet sure that she should like the owner of it. The lady did not smile when she said, almost as if having a visitor bored her:—

"So you are staying here at the hospital, Dr. Dudley tells me. What do you find to do with yourself all day long?"

Polly had the feeling that the little sad lady would never know whether she returned an answer or not, for her eyes seemed to be looking at something for away. Yet the reply was without hesitation, and primly courteous.

"I help Miss Lucy make the beds and dress the babies, and I dust and I carry medicine and drinks of water. Then, when there is n't anything to do to help, I read stories out loud, or tell them, and we play quiet games." She paused, hunting for facts. "Oh and I go auto riding with Dr. Dudley!" she broke out brightly. "That's very nice. A And I've been to ride with Colonel Gresham!" she smiled. "I like that, Lone Star was so splendid. Only David was awfully sick, and I was afraid he'd die, and I kept thinking of him. He said he would take me again some day."

"My dear, I don't quite understand. David Gresham sick? What David do you mean?" The little lady was waking up.

"Oh, David Collins! He's upstairs in the ward. Colonel Gresham took me to catch the Doctor."

And Polly related the story of the chase.

"Collins! Why, it was Jack Collins that Eva Gresham married— the Colonel's niece."

"Yes; David has told me that Colonel Gresham is his mother's uncle," Polly said simply.

"Well, well! So he went after the Doctor for his grand-nephew— and did n't know it till it was all over with! What strange things happen in this world! A pretty good joke on David Gresham!" And the little sad lady actually smiled. Then she sighed. "It is too bad! If they'd only make up! But they never will. David is n't built on the make-up plan—or Eva either, I fancy. Eva Gresham was a beautiful girl," she rambled on, talking more to herself than to her interested listener. "She lived with her uncle from the time her parents died, when she was a tiny child. The Colonel idolized her."

A bit of a break in the soft voice make a momentary pause in the musing. Then it went on again. "He had nothing in the world against Jack Collins, except that he was an artist, and poor. He would n't have been poor, they say, if he had lived. His pictures were beginning to sell at good prices."

Suddenly she came back to Polly.

"So the Colonel is going to take you driving again! Well, my dear, you need n't be afraid he'll forget it; if he said he would, he will. I declare, you look a good deal as Eva used to when she was your age. She had just such golden hair and brown eyes."

"David has blue eyes—the bluest I ever saw," observed Polly.

"He probably favors his father," replied Mrs. Jocelyn.

The Doctor's entrance put a stop to the talk, and presently Polly said good-bye, and went upstairs.

Not many days afterwards she was sent with a message to Mrs. Jocelyn's nurse, and the little lady caught sight of her at the door.

"Can't you come in and stay a while?" she called.

"I don't know," Polly hesitated, and she looked questioningly at the nurse.

"Yes, I wish you would," the young woman nodded. "I shall have to be away for a quarter of an hour or so, and if you will stay with Mrs. Jocelyn while I'm gone it will be an accommodation to me."

Polly seated herself smilingly.

"I wonder if you are as happy as you look," the little white-haired lady began.

"Oh, I'm always happy!" responded Polly; "that is, here," she added. "I could n't help being, it's so pleasant, and everybody is so good to me."

The dull gray eyes rested sadly on her. "Well, be happy while you can be," their owner said. "When you get to be old you'll forget what happiness feels like."

"Oh, but I shan't ever grow old!" laughed Polly. "Dr. Dudley and I are going to stay young!"

The little lady shook her head, and then changed the subject.

"How is David Collins getting on?"

"He is ever so much better," answered Polly; "and is n't it too bad? He's almost strong enough to come down into our ward, and there is n't any room for him! I've had to go and sleep in Miss Lucy's bed, so they could use my cot."

"Is the hospital so full as that?" scowled Mrs. Jocelyn. "Dear me, how many sick people there are!"

"There are three or four waiting now to come down, ahead of David," Poly went on. "I don't know what we shall do if he can't come at all! We've planned so many things. He said he'd tell part of the bedtime stories—oh, it was going to be lovely!"

"Perhaps there'll be a place for him pretty soon," the little lady responded. "Dr. Dudley says that you are a story-teller, too."

"Oh, yes! Some days the children keep me telling them all day long."

"Suppose you tell me one," invited the little lady.

"Well," returned Polly, a bit doubtfully, and then stopped to think over her list. "The Cherry-Pudding Story," which usually insisted on being uppermost, would scarcely do this time, she thought. It seemed to rollicking for this big, hushed room, with only one sober-eyed listener. She hastily decided that none of the cat stories were suitable, or fairy tales—"Oh!" she suddenly dimpled, "I wonder if you would n't like the story that David lent me. His aunt wrote it, and sent it to him. I read it to Miss Lucy and the children. It is about little Prince Benito and a wonderful flower."

"I shall be pleased to hear it," was the polite reply.

This seemed somewhat doubtful to Polly, used as she was to enthusiastic responses.

"Won't it tire you?" she hesitated.

"I am always tired, little one. Perhaps the story will rest me."

"This I'll run right upstairs and get it," beamed Polly. "I guess I can read it better than I can tell it. You don't mind staying alone while I'm gone?"

"No, indeed!" was the reply, yet she sighed after Polly had disappeared. All the brightness of the room seemed to have vanished.

The little sad woman soon found herself watching for the light returning footfalls, and she greeted the child with a faint smile.

Polly read as she talked, naturally and with ease, and before she had finished the first page of the story her listener had settled herself comfortably among her pillows, a look of interest on her usually spiritless face.

It was a fanciful tale of a beautiful little prince who, by sowing seeds of the Wonderful White Flower of Love, transformed his father's kingdom, a country desolate from war and threatened by famine and insurrection, into a land of prosperity and peace and joy.

At the last word, Polly, flushed with the spirit of the story, looked up expectantly; but her listener's weary eyes seemed to be studying the pattern of the dainty comfort across her lap. Sadly Polly gathered together the scattered manuscript sheets, and waited.

"Thank you, dear," the little lady finally said; but the words were spoken as with an effort.

"I am afraid I have tired you," mourned Polly.

"No, little one; you have only given me something to think of. You read unusually well. Perhaps we'll have another story some day. You don't need to stay, of you have anything else to do. I shall want nothing until Miss Parkin comes."

Polly felt that she was dismissed, yet she had promised the nurse to remain. She hesitated a moment, and then said, "Good-bye," and went out. She met Miss Parkin in the hall, and explained.

Up in the ward, Miss Lucy was quick to see that Polly was troubled.

"How did the story go?" she asked.

"I don't know," Polly sighed. "I guess she did n't like it, 'cause she seemed to be thinking about something else, and she said I need n't stay any longer. I thought it would make her happier," she lamented, "and all it did was to tire her!" Polly's eyes were brimming over with tears.

"Never mind, dear," said Miss Lucy comfortingly. "You did your part, and as well as you could; that's all any of us can do. So don't worry about it. There's Brida looking this way, as if she were just longing to talk with you."

"She shan't wait another minute," smiled, and off she skipped, to make Brida and her followers merry.



Chapter VIII

A warning From Aunt Jane

Towards noon came a telephone call for Polly to go down to Dr. Dudley's office. Usually she sped gladly to obey such a summons; now she was assailed by a sudden fear.

"Have I made her very much worse?" was her instant inquiry, as the Doctor opened his door?

"Made whom worse?" he questioned.

"Why, Mrs. Jocelyn!"

"I have heard nothing from her. What is it?"

Polly told of her visit and of the reading.

"Is that all!" the Doctor laughed. "Don't worry about it any more, little girl! Your stories are not the kind that harm people. What did you read? One that I know?"

"I don't think so," Polly replied. "I did n't tell you about Prince Benito, did I?"

The physician shook his head. "Suppose you tell it to me now," he suggested.

So, perched comfortably upon the arm of his chair, Polly related the story of "The Wonderful White Flower."

"I see," he mused, as Polly stopped speaking. He was silent a moment. Then he went on.

"Mrs. Jocelyn lost her only child, a beautiful little boy, when he was eight years old. It is not unlikely that this story awakened tender memories."

"I'm sorry I made her feel bad," grieved Polly.

"I would n't be if I were you."

A "Why!" of wonder was rounding Polly's lips, as the physician continued:—

"Perhaps you have done Mrs. Jocelyn more good than you will ever know. Since her husband and little boy died she has shut people out of her life, seldom leaving her home, and rarely entertaining a guest. From what she has said to me I judge that she has allowed herself to brood over her sorrows till she has become bitter and melancholy. Let's hope that your little story will open her eyes."

"Does she live all alone when she is home?" queried Polly.

"Alone with her servants."

"Oh, then she is n't poor! I thought she must be."

Dr. Dudley smilingly shook his head. "She has more money than probably you or I will ever handle, little girl; but we'll have better riches than gold, won't we?"

"Yes; you'll make people well, and I'll try to make them happy," returned Polly, a sweet seriousness on her usually merry face. "I wish I could make everybody in the world happy," she added.

"That is too big a job for one little Thistledown," laughed Dr. Dudley. "There!" he exclaimed, "I nearly forgot what I called you down for! Colonel Gresham hailed me out here, and asked if you could go to Forest Park, this afternoon, with him and Lone Star. I said yes. Was that all right?

"Of course!" beamed Polly. "Is n't it lovely of him to ask me? Had I better tell him that David is better?"

"Not unless he inquires," the Doctor answered. "He said he would be here at three o'clock. You can come down a little before that, and keep a lookout for him, so as not to make him wait."

Polly was on hand, in the Doctor's office, while it still lacked fifteen minutes of the hour; but the Colonel was early, and the waiting time was short. Very sweet she looked, as she ran down the stone walk to the street, in her dainty new white dress with simple ruffles edging neck and sleeves. In the delight of the moment Polly did not forget the children up an the ward windows, but waved them a gay good-bye, while Colonel Gresham greeted the bobbing heads with a graceful swing of his straw hat.

There was not much talk at first, for the way to the park lay through the heart of the city; but Polly was content silently to watch the changing throngs around them.

Suddenly the Colonel drew up his horse in response to call from the sidewalk, and presently was in a business talk with the man who arrested him.

"I shall have to leave you for a moment," he said, at length, turning to Polly. "I'll be back shortly." And, having fastened Lone Star, he disappeared up a stairway.

Polly was enjoying this little break, when she caught sight of a well-known face. "It's Aunt Jane!" she murmured, and was promptly seized with a desire to hide. Breathlessly she watched the woman in the black dress, hoping for escape from those ferret eyes; but the horse and carriage were conspicuous, and Aunt Jane's glance fell first on Lone Star and then passed to the little girl upon the seat.

"Polly May!" she exclaimed, and Polly smiled a somewhat uncertain greeting.

"How in the world did you come here?" twanged the remembered voice.

"Colonel Gresham is taking me to ride," was the explanation, "and he's gone upstairs a minute."

"Colonel Gresham! Goodness gracious me! Well, you are coming up in the world! Why hain't you been round to see me?"

"I'm—pretty busy," answered Polly, "I—"

"Busy! Huh, you must be! Well, so'm I busy, or I should 'a' been up after you before this. Guess you've stayed at that hospital 'bout long enough. You might 's well be helpin' me as gallivantin' round with Tom, Dick, and Harry."

"I—thought I was going to stay all summer," faltered Polly.

"I did n't make no special agreement, and now there's cannin' and picklin' and what-not to do, I could keep you out o' mischief easy. Where'd you get that dress?"

"Miss Lucy bought it for me."

"She did, hey? Well, 't ain't hurt with trimmin', is it?"

The Colonel appearing at the moment, Aunt Jane made a rather hurried departure, while she assured Polly that she would "be round before long."

"Who is that woman?" inquired Colonel Gresham.

"My Aunt Jane," was the soft answer.

"What's her other name?"

"Mrs. Simpson. Uncle Gregory—that was her husband—was killed when the building fell, and I was hurt."

"Oh, yes! I recollect. Well, is Aunt Jane good to you? Do you love her very much?"

Polly waived the first question, and proceeded to the second. "I'm afraid I don't love her at all," she replied honestly. "Of course, I ought to; but I don't."

"It is mighty hard to love some folks," meditated the Colonel. "I think I should rather do a season's ploughing than to attempt to love that Aunt Jane."

Polly smiled, and then returned to the question she had left behind. "I guess she's pretty good to me," she said. "She never whipped me."

"Whipped you!" the Colonel exclaimed. "I should hope not!"

"Aunts do whip sometimes," Polly nodded soberly. "Bessie Jackson's aunt whipped her—awful! I'd run away!"

"Yes," the Colonel agreed, "that would be the best thing in such a case—though perhaps this Bessie deserved the whipping."

"No, she did n't!" Polly assured him.

"Well, now, I'll tell you," he went on confidentially, "if anybody ever lays a finger on you, just you come to my house, and I'll see that you are treated all right. Remember that now!"

Polly chuckled a "thank you," and Colonel Gresham began talking about the park, the entrance of which they were nearing.

Polly tried to put Aunt Jane from her mind; but the threatened possibilities kept thrusting themselves into the Colonel's merry speeches, until she scarcely comprehended what he was saying. Little by little, however, the beauties of her surroundings overpowered all else, and Aunt Jane was for the time almost forgotten.

The wise men who had planned Forest Park had known better than to try to improve on nature's handiwork, and rocks and ravines, brooks and pools, wooded slopes and ferny tangles, were left practically unchanged. Polly loved birds and flowers and all the scents and sounds of summer fields and woods, and now, as the air came laden with faint perfume, and a carol burst into the stillness, she clasped her little hands together with a soft breath of delight.

Colonel Gresham watcher her in furtive silence. Finally she turned towards him.

"I should think it would make sick people well to come out, here should n't you?"

"Some of them," he nodded.

"I'm going to tell Mrs. Jocelyn all about it. Perhaps it would make her happier if she's come."

"What Mrs. Jocelyn is that?" asked the Colonel.

"I don't know her other name. The one that's at the hospital— she's small, and has white hair. Her husband and little boy died."

"Oh, yes! Juliet Jocelyn, probably; but I did n't know that she was sick."

"She's had an operation, I think; but she's getting well now. I've been to see her twice. Yesterday I read her a story."

"I hope she appreciated it," observed the Colonel dryly.

"I'm not sure," Polly replied; "she did n't say. Do you know Mrs. Jocelyn?"

"I knew her a long time ago," was the grave answer, as he turned his horse into the road that wound up the eastern side of the mountain.

"Oh, you're going to take the Cliff Drive!" cried Polly delightedly. "Dr. Dudley could n't go, because they won't let autos up there."

"No, for one might meet a skittish horse. I like to come up here once in a while for the view."

"I'm not going to look till we get clear up," Polly declared. And resolutely she kept her eyes the other way.

"Now!" announced Colonel Gresham.

Polly turned her head—and held her breath. Then she let it out in one long sigh of rapture.

Before them lay the city, glittering in the afternoon sunshine, while beyond, to the north and east and south, green hills formed a living frame for the picture.

"It is worth coming for," said the Colonel, at last. "There is your home—see?"

"Oh, yes! It looks like a castle in a forest."

And then—when joy was uppermost—Aunt Jane's threat crowded in.

Polly's eyes wandered from the "castle" in the direction of the home she dreaded.

Colonel Gresham noted the sudden shadow on the bright face, and took up the reins.

On the way back they stopped at a confectioner's, and the Colonel brought out a package and laid it on Polly's lap. "There is something to remember the drive by," he said.

"Oh, thank you!" she beamed. "But I don't need anything more to make me remember it," she added. "It has been beautiful—right straight through!—Except Aunt Jane!" she put in honestly, under her breath, and again her face was shadowed.

"It is the best way," observed the Colonel, "to let disagreeable things slip off our shoulders at once. If we should carry them all, we should have a sorry load."

"I guess I'll do that way," smiled Polly; "but Aunt Jane don't slip easy!"

"Shake her off," laughed the Colonel, "and she'll go!"

It was a happy moment up in the ward when Polly opened her box of candy. Such chocolates, such candied cherries and strawberries, with tiny tongs to lift them with, the children had never seen. They chose one apiece all round, which Miss Lucy said was enough for that day, and Polly carried the box down to the Doctor's office, that he might taste her sweets. It never occurred to her that she was entitled to more than the others.

Dr. Dudley heard all about the drive, but nothing of Aunt Jane. Polly had decided to take the Colonel's advice—if she could, and she recollected with relief that Aunt Jane was always more ready to threaten than to perform.

A few days afterwards Dr. Dudley early for Polly.

"Anyway it is n't Aunt Jane at this time," she assured herself, as she ran downstairs.

"Mrs. Jocelyn wants to see you right away," the Doctor told her.

"She does?" wondered Polly. "Do you know for what?"

"I don't know anything," he smiled; "but I guess a good deal."

"Oh! What do you guess it is?" she entreated.

He shook his head laughingly. "I should hate to have you discover that I was n't a good guesser," he said. "Run along, and find out for sure!"

Polly was astonished to see how greatly the little lady had changed. Her cheeks reflected the delicate pink of the robe she was wearing, and her eyes were glad. Her voice was full of eagerness.

"Here comes the little sunbeam!" she smiled. "Did I interrupt any tasks or play?" She drew Polly within the circle of her arm. "I could n't wait another moment to thank you for reading me that story of the little price. It brought back my own little Lloyd, who was always planting those seeds of love wherever he went. But since he left me I have been like that forgetful queen mother, too wrapped up in myself to think of others. Now I am going to begin to grow those 'wonderful white flowers.'" Her eyes shone through tears.

Polly did not know what to say; she only looked her sympathy and appreciation.

"Tell me about David," the little lady went on. "Is he well enough to come downstairs?"

"Yes, he's all ready," was the reply; "but he's go to wait for somebody to go. Elsie was to leave to-day to to-morrow; but she needs a little more treatment, Dr. Dudley says. So I don't know when David can come."

"I know!" responded Mrs. Jocelyn confidently. "He is coming down to the convalescent ward—let me see, I think it may be this afternoon, but to-morrow morning sure!"

"Wh-y! how can he?" gasped Polly. "There are three ahead of him, and there are n't any more beds!"

"There will be before long," chuckled the little lady gaily. "I have been having a bit of a talk with Dr. Dudley, and he tells me that there is plenty of room in your ward for six or more cots— and Polly May is going to buy them! That is, she can if she chooses."

Polly's face was one big interrogation point. "Why! I don't—" she began, but was interrupted by a kiss right on her lips.

"Oh, you dear, precious little innocent!" cried Mrs. Jocelyn. "Read that, and see if it will tell you anything!" She took a strip of paper from the table, and put it into Polly's hand.

Across the top, in large letters, was the name of a back. The rest was partly printed and partly written. Polly read wonderingly:—

Pay to the order of Polly May Three Hundred Dollars. Juliet P. Jocelyn.

"O-o-h!" and Polly's face was beautiful in its joy; "does this mean that you're going to give me three hundred dollars to buy some new cots with?"

"It means that the money is your own to use exactly as you please." The little lady was scarcely less excited than the child. Giving was to her almost an untried pleasure.

"Oh, I can't, I can't, I can't thank you enough! It is so lovelicious!" Then Polly threw her arms around the happy donor in a way that would have made her cry out with actual pain if she had not been too delighted to realize it.

"I think that will cover the cost of six or seven cots, equipped for use," said Mrs. Jocelyn,—"that is, if you wish to spend the money for them." The gray eyes actually twinkled.

"Why, of course I do!" cried Polly. "What else could I do with it?"

"You could n't, you blessed child! So we'll have David downstairs just as soon as his bed is ready, won't we?"

"Yes, and how glad he'll be! Oh, how glad he'll be! And Brida and Elsie—they've been dreadfully afraid they'd have to go home before he came down; they want to see him so! Won't they be pleased!"

"I want to see David, too," declared the little lady, "and he must come down with you as soon as his is strong enough—unless I get well first," she laughed. "I feel almost well now."

Polly beamed her delight, and presently was racing upstairs to tell her good news to everybody.

Dr. Dudley managed to get away before noon for the pleasant errand of purchasing the beds, and Polly was overflowing with bliss. She had her choice in everything, with the Doctor and the merchant as advisers; and although the bill footed up to a little more than the check, the difference was struck off, and the cots and bedding promised to be at the hospital by two o'clock that afternoon.

The convalescent ward was in such an ecstasy of excitement that dinner went poorly; but finally it was cleared away, and the cots moved to make room for those were coming. Everybody helped that could walk—even those that had to hobble on crutches, for there were many little things to do, and only a short time to do them in. Polly was Miss Lucy's ready right hand, with always a flock of eager assistants. When the beds were actually in place and the men had gone away, came the delightful task of spreading on the sheets and blankets and pretty coverlets. All was in readiness before the hour specified, and then there was nothing to do but wait for the coming of the new patients.

At last there were footsteps on the stairs, uneven footsteps, as of one bearing a burden—the children had started! David was the last, and Polly had begun to be troubled, lest, after all, something might have delayed him until another day. But there he was, smiling to her, and waving a thin little hand in greeting. Polly wished that Mrs. Jocelyn could be there to see it all. When David was finally in bed, with Polly by his side, he said:—

"Now, tell me all about it, please! It was such a splendid surprise!"

So Polly told just how it had happened, and talked and kept on talking, until she suddenly discovered that David was looking a little weary—though he insisted that he was not tired. But in her motherly way, that was the delight of the ward, she bade him shut his eyes and "go right to sleep," giving his hand a final caressing pat, and then running away to let him have a chance to follow her injunction.



Chapter IX

A Night of Song

David had been nearly three whole days in the convalescent ward, taking big leaps on the road to health, when Polly was summoned to Dr. Dudley's office. Since her meeting with Aunt Jane, the sharp-voiced woman was ever close at hand, ready instantly to appear in the little girl's thought and fill her with sickening fear. Now Polly's feet lagged as she went downstairs; she dreaded to look into the office. But Dr. Dudley was there quite alone, smiling a blithe good-morning.

"Miss Price wishes you assistance in the care of a patient," he began.

"Wh-y!" breathed Polly, "How funny—for her to want me!"

"She is nursing Burton Leonard," the physician explained, "a little six-year-old boy who was operated upon yesterday for appendicitis. His life depends on his being quiet, but he will not keep still. Miss Price thinks you can help out by telling him a story or two, something that will make him forget, if possible, how terribly thirsty he is."

"Can't he have anything to drink?" questioned Polly, with a sympathetic little frown.

"Only an occasional sip of warm water—nothing cold."

"I'll do my best," she promised. "I shall love to help, if I can."

Dr. Dudley took her hand, and down the corridor they went, the one with long strides, the other on dancing feet.

Master Burton stared at his visitor, his big black eyes looking bigger in a contrast with the white, drawn little face.

"What you come for?" he asked fretfully.

"To see you," smiled Polly.

"I do' want to be seen," was the unexpected reply, and he pulled the sheet over his head.

Polly laughed, and waited.

Presently the black eyes again appeared.

"Why don't you lie abed?" he whined.

"I did till I got well."

"Did they make you lie still?" he questioned.

"Yes, I had to keep very still indeed."

"I don't," he whispered, glancing towards the Doctor, who was just passing out. "When they ain't lookin' I wriggle round!"

"You'd get well quicker if you'd do just as Miss Price and Dr. Dudley tell you," advised Polly.

"Huh! My mamma says nobody on earth can make me mind!" He beckoned her nearer. "Say," he chuckled, "she put an ice bag on me," with a wink towards the nurse, "and I got out some o' the ice! It's awful good! She would n't give me a drop o' water, only horrid old warm stuff." He showed his tongue, with a bit of ice upon it.

Polly was shocked. In the light of what the physician had told her, she realized that the boy was ignorantly thwarting the efforts of those who were trying to save his life. She did not know what to say."

"Do you like stories?" she finally asked.

The lad looked surprised, but answered, "Some kinds. Why?"

"I thought I'd tell you one, if you'd like me to."

"Do you know one 'bout soldiers?"

"I don't believe I do; but I know a song about a soldier."

"Can you sing?"

"Yes."

"Sing, then."

"Will you lie still if I will?" asked Polly.

"It's a go!"

So Polly sang the old, old song of "The Drummer Boy of Waterloo," one that her grandmother had taught her when she was a wee girl.

The boy was true to his promise, and remained motionless until the last note ceased.

"Sing it again!" he commanded. "That's a dandy!"

Twice, three times more, the sad little ditty was sung; then the sweet voice slipped softly into Holland's "Lullaby," which had been learned from hearing it sung by Miss Lucy to restless little patients.

"Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover, Crooning so drowsily, crying so low. Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover, Down into wonderland, Down to the underland, Down into wonderland go!

"Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover! Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn. Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover, Into the stilly world, Into the lily world. Into the lily world gone!"

Before Polly reached the last word the song had died almost to a breath, for Burton was "gone"—fast asleep. For a time she watched him. His breathing was slow and steady. Finally she slipped softly from her chair, and glanced across the room. Miss Price nodded and smiled, and Polly tip-toed towards the door, beckoning her to follow.

Outside, in the corridor, the nurse heard of the mischievous act of her little patient.

"I did n't think he would do that!" sighed Miss Price, and she shook her head gravely. "You are right to tell me at once," she went on; "but I will not let Burton know that I learned of it through you. Thank you for coming down. You may like to hear," she added, as Polly was starting away, "that I had good news from Turkey this morning. MY sister is better; they think she is going to get well."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" beamed Polly. Then impulsively, she put up her arms, and the next minute they were around the neck of Miss Hortensia Price.

This time she felt sure that the stately nurse did like kisses, else why should she return them so cordially, and presently Polly was skipping upstairs, full of gladness that her service had been a success.

That night, in the hour before bedtime, David was entertainer. Polly had promised the children delightful stories from him, and now he made good her word. He chose for his recital something of his aunt's that Polly had never heard, the true account of how some little trickey Southern boys obtained a pet goat. David had shown his wisdom in making his first selection a story that would please the crowd. The children laughed and laughed over it, and begged for another. The second was as unlike the first as possible. It was about a little princess who was carried into captivity by some rough people, and who won the hearts of everybody, even those of her captors, by her gentleness and love, and who finally, through her brave unselfishness, found her way to freedom and happiness.

"I'd love to be like that Princess Yvonne," sighed Polly.

It was in David's heart to say, "You are more nearly like her than any girl I ever saw," but the words were not spoken. He only smiled across to Miss Lucy, who sent him a smile of comprehension in return. The two had quickly learned to understand each other without words.

"It is so hard always to love everybody," Polly went on. She was thinking of Aunt Jane. "Do you love everybody, Miss Lucy,—every single body?"

The nurse laughed softly. "I'm afraid I sometimes find it a difficult task," she admitted; "but even when we dislike people, or do not exactly love them, we can wish them well, and be ready to do them kindness whenever it is possible. And we can usually find something lovable in everybody, if we look for it deep enough and long enough."

There was a moment's hush, and then Elsie piped out:—

"David, can't you tell another story, please?"

"It is pretty nearly bedtime," Miss Lucy suggested. "If we have one, it must be short."

"Oh, David, sing a song—do!" begged Polly.

"Can he sing?" queried Cornelius wonderingly.

"Beautifully!" answered Polly.

"You don't know!" laughed David.

"You never heard me."

"Yes, I do know!" insisted Polly. "They would n't let you sing solos at St. Paul's Church if you did n't sing well—so!"

The children waited in astonished silence. This was an accomplishment of David's which had not been told them.

Miss Lucy propped him up a little higher among his pillows, and then he began the sweet vesper hymn, "The King of Love my Shepherd is."

The children were very quiet until they were sure that the singing was over. Then Brida voiced everybody's thought.

"Was n't that beautiful!"

Presently Polly was going about her little nightly tasks humming the melody to herself. She was quick to catch an air, and with a bit of prompting from David she soon had the words.

"Oh, you David can sing it to us together to-morrow night!" cried Elsie, and there was a responsive chorus from all over the ward.

Polly went to sleep singing the hymn in her heart.

Miss Lucy's cot was nearest the door, and shortly after midnight she waked with the sound of a rap in her ears. Hastily throwing on a robe which was always at hand, she answered with a soft, "What is it?"

"Burton Leonard is worse," came in Dr. Dudley's low voice, "and he wants Polly to sing to him. Get her ready as quick as you can, please."

The little girl was dreaming of Aunt Jane. She was trying to hold a tall ladder straight up in the air, while Aunt Jane climbed to the top, and her aunt was fretting because she did not keep it steady. "Oh, I can't hold on a minute longer!" Polly dreamed she was saying to herself. "But I must! I must! Because Miss Lucy said we were to do kindness for anybody we did n't love!"

Then she roused enough to know that Miss Lucy was bending over her, whispering:

"Polly dear! Can you wake up?"

"Oh! David?" Polly's first thought was for her friend.

"No, darling; David's all right. Dr. Dudley wants you to come down and sing to little Burton Leonard."

"Oh, of course I'll go!" Polly was wide awake now, and ready for anything.

She and Miss Lucy made speedy work of the dressing. Dr. Dudley was outside the door waiting for her, and quietly they went downstairs.

"I'll have to sing pretty soft; shan't I?" she questioned; "or it will disturb the other folks."

"Yes," the physician agreed. "But the room is rather isolated anyway, and the end of the wing. There's nobody near that there 's any danger of harming."

"Hullo!" came in a weak little voice, as Polly entered the doorway. "I told 'em I'd keep still of you'd sing to me; but I did n't b'lieve you'd come. I thought you'd be too sleepy."

The boy's mother was nervously smoothing his pillow, but at a word from the physician she retired to a seat beside the nurse.

A small electric light glowed at the other end of the apartment, and the night wind blew in at the open window, fluttering the leaves of a magazine that lay near. Polly felt awed by the hush of seriousness that seemed to fill the room. Although the Doctor spoke in his usual tone, the voices of the others scarcely rose above a whisper. She was glad when Dr. Dudley took her upon his knee. His encircling arm gave her instant cheer.

"Sing 'bout the 'Drummer Boy'!" begged the sick child, plaintively, and there was something in his tone that gave Polly a pang of fear. How different from his commands of the morning!

Ver soft was the singing, as if in keeping with the occasion and the hour, yet every ward was clear.

From "The Drummer Boy" Polly slipped easily into "The Star-Spangled Banner," "America," "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean," and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Then came two or three negro melodies and some songs she had learned at school, at the end of which Dr. Dudley whispered to her to stop and rest.

While she was singing, the sick boy had lain motionless; but now he began to nestle, and called fretfully, "Water! Water! Do give me some water!"

The nurse fetched a glass, but as soon as he discovered that it was warm, he would not taste it.

"Sing more!" he pleaded.

So again Polly sang, beginning with "My Old Kentucky Home," and then charming the Doctor with one of his favorites, "'Way down upon the Swanee Ribber." "Annie Laurie" came next, then "Those Evening Bells," and other old songs which her grandmother had taught her.

"I'm afraid you're getting too tired," Dr. Dudley told her; but she smilingly shook her head, and sang on.

Once or twice the lad drowsed, and she stopped for a bit of a rest, until his insistent, "Sing more!" roused her from a momentary dream.

The mother sat a little apart, but kept her eyes on her boy's face, ready for instant service.

Several times the physician reached over to feel his patient's pulse, and seemed satisfied with what he found.

So the night dragged by.

It was early dawn when Miss Price, in answer to the repeated call, again fetched water, and, as before, the child refused it.

"Take away that nasty old hot stuff, and bring me some cold!" he commanded, with a spurt of his usual lordliness.

The nurse gently urged him to taste it; but he only pushed the spoon away.

Dr. Dudley was about to speak, when Polly interposed with the first lines of "The Secret," a little song she had learned in her last days of school. Her voice was loud enough to catch the boy's attention, but the words were sung slowly and confidentially.

"What do you think is in our back yard? P'rhaps you can guess, if you try real hard. It is n't a puppy, or little white mice, But it's something that's every bit as nice! Oh, no, it's not chickens or kittens at all!"

She broke off, her eyes smilingly meeting Burton's.

"What is it?" he asked feebly.

"Take some of that," she replied, pointing to the cup, and I'll sing "the rest."

He frowned at her, as she leaned back on the Doctor's shoulder. In her attitude he saw nothing of hope, unless he complied with her requirement. Without another protest he swallowed a few spoonfuls of liquid.

"Can't you think what is soft and round and small? It's two little—somethings, as white as snow! Two dear baby rabbits!—there, now—you know!"

"Sing it again!" he begged.

Soon his eyelids dropped together, but as the song was ended he opened them wide, with a silent appeal for more.

So the tired little girl sang the lullaby that had put him to sleep early the day before. This time it did not have the hoped-for effect, and the vesper hymn which David had sung—at the bedtime hour which now seemed so very far away—came to the singer's mind. Softly she began the tender little song, going through it without a break.

At its close the boy lay quite still, and with a sight of relief her bright head dropped on the pillowing shoulder.

The Doctor leaned forward, and listened. The lad's breathing was soft and regular.

"Sound asleep at last! Now, Thistledown—a-h!" he gasped, for Polly lay on his arm, a limp little heap.

With great strides he carried her to the window.

The nurse reached the couch as soon as he, and thrust the globule into his hand.

Crushing it in his handkerchief, he passed it before the child's nostrils, and with a little fluttering breath the brown eyes opened.

"I guess—I—was—a little tired," Polly said brokenly.

"You were faint—that's all. Don't try to talk."

Miss Price brought some medicine in a glass, and Polly obediently swallowed the draught.

"Is she all right now?" whispered Mrs. Leonard, who had been standing back, frantically clasping and unclasping her nervous little hands.

The nurse nodded. "For a minute I was afraid—she is not very strong; but it was only a faint."

"If anything had happened, I should never forgiven myself for letting her sing so long! But did n't he go off to sleep beautifully. Just look at him—still as a mouse!" And the two moved nearer the bed.

Polly went upstairs in Dr. Dudley's arms.

"I can—walk," she murmured.

"No; I want the pleasure of carrying you," was the light response, and for answer a soft little hand stroked his own.

Miss Lucy met them at the door of the ward, and her face was white with fear.

"She was tired and a little faint," the Doctor explained. "I thought I'd better bring her up."

"Don't worry—Miss Lucy!" smiled Polly. "I'm—all right." She sighed softly, as her head touched the pillow.

"Precious child!" murmured the nurse, and then followed the Doctor to the door.

"Has she been singing all this time?" Reproach was in the gentle tone.

He bowed. "I know! It was too severe a strain. But she did n't seem very tired until just at the last—and it has probably saved the boy's life."

"That is good—if it has n't hurt her," Miss Lucy added anxiously.

"I think not," he replied. "She seems to be all right now. She will probably sleep late from exhaustion. Do you suppose you can keep the children quiet?"

"Quiet! Bless them! They won't stir, if they know it is going to disturb Polly!"

Dr. Dudley laughed softly. "Don't let her get up till I come," he charged her. "I'll be in early." And he turned away.

Miss Lucy undressed Polly so gently that she did not awake. Then she sat by her side until broad daylight. The children were still asleep around her, when her name was whispered across the ward.

David was sitting up in bed, his face shadowed with fear.

"What's the matter with Polly?" he questioned.

Miss Lucy told briefly the incident of the night, and he lay down again, but not to sleep. If the nurse so much as stirred, David was always looking her way.

The ward was greatly excited at the news; but Miss Lucy had been true in her predictions. Never had such noiseless toilets been made within its walls. Everybody went about on tiptoe, and Leonora Hewitt would not walk at all, lest the thump of her crutch on the floor might waken Polly.

The little girl was still asleep when Dr. Dudley came, but soon afterward she opened her eyes to find him at her side. Almost her first words were an inquiry about Burton Leonard.

"He is very much better," the Doctor replied. "He wanted me to tell you not to worry about him to-day, for he would keep still without your singing. I did n't know there was such good stuff in him. He has been angelic, Miss Price says, ever since he heard that you were tired out. That seemed to touch his little heart. He called you 'a dandy girl.' You have quite won him over."

"I'm glad," smiled Polly. "I guess I can sing a little for him to-day, if he needs me."

"You won't!" Dr. Dudley replied. "You are to stay in bed, Miss Polly May! When young ladies are out all night they must lie abed the next day."

"All day long?" she queried.

"Yes."

Polly sighed a bit of a sigh; then she smiled again.

"I may talk, may n't I?" she begged.

"Not many bedside receptions to-day," he answered. "I want you to sleep all you can."

With a little chuckle she shut her eyes tight. "Good-night!" she said demurely.

"That is a gentle hint for me to go," the Doctor laughed. Then he bent for a whisper in her ear. "If you sleep enough to-day, I think we'll have a ride to-morrow."

She opened her eyes, returned a happy "thank you," and then cuddled down on her pillow.



Chapter X

The Ward's Anniversary

The convalescent ward was generally a happy place, for everybody was getting well, and getting well is pleasant business. Just now it was at its best. The majority of the children had lived together long enough to be loyal friends, and there were no discordant dispositions. In fact, discords knew better than to push in where Miss Lucy reigned. Her gentle tack had proved quite sufficient for any disagreeable element that had yet appeared in the ward, and lately all had been harmony. The nurse would have told you that this was greatly due to Polly May, and Polly would have insisted it was entirely Miss Lucy's work; but as long as happiness was there nobody cared whence it came.

David Collins was a decided acquisition; the ward agreed in that.

"He can tell stories almost as well as Polly," declared Elsie Meyer to a knot of her chosen intimates.

"Not qui-te," objected loyal little Brida, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that they were far enough away from the ears of the boy under discussion.

"I did n't say quite," returned Elsie, in a lover voice, "I said almost. 'Course, nobody tells 'em so good as Polly—she's 'special!"

"But David is a dandy fine feller!" asserted Cornelius. "He can play ball, reg'lar baseball! A college feller on a team showed him how!"

"Wisht I could play ball," sighed Leonora Hewitt, a bit dejectedly.

"Girls don't play baseball!" laughed Cornelius.

"They do some kinds anyway—I used to!" And again Leonora sighed. It is hard to be shut out from things when you are only ten.

"I would n't care, if I were you," comforted Elsie, in a way that showed her to be an unconscious pupil of her adored Polly. She threw an arm around the little girl who the Doctor feared would never walk again on two strong feet. "There's lots of things better than playing ball."

"What?" demanded Cornelius, with more curiosity than thoughtfulness.

Elsie flashed him a look that meant, "How can you?" for Cornelius had been able to throw aside his own helps to walking. Then she answered triumphantly, "Playing with dolls—for one thing!"

"Dolls!" echoed Cornelius, laughing "Ho, ho! Dolls!"

"Well, I don't care, they are! Ain't they, Miss Lucy?"

"What is it, Elsie?" smiled the nurse across from her desk. "I was n't noticing."

"Dolls—ain't dolls more fun that playing ball?"

"That depends," answered Miss Lucy. "Cornelius or Moses would no doubt enjoy a game of ball better than the prettiest doll that ever was made; but you and Leonora and Corinne, for instance, would be unusual little girls if you did n't like dolls best."

Elsie and Cornelius faced each other with good-natured laughter.

"But I hain't got any doll," lamented Leonora.

"Nary a ball!" declared Cornelius, striking his reast dramatically. "So we're even!"

"My doll's 'most worn out," mourned Elsie. "Guess it will be quite by the time I get home, with Rosie and Esther bangin' it round."

"I want my dolly! I want my dolly!" piped up little Isabel. "Where's my dolly?"

"Oh! May I get her the doll, Miss Lucy?" cried Elsie, running over to the chest of drawers where the ward's few playthings were kept.

Isabel trotted after, her face shining with expectation.

Barely waiting for the desired permission, Elsie dived down into the lower drawer, and, after a brief search among torn picture-books and odds and ends of broken toy, brought forth a little battered rubber doll, which had lost most of its coloring and all of its cry. But Baby Isabel hugged it to her heart, and at once dropped to the floor, crooning over her new treasure.

While the ward was thus discussing dolls, Mrs. Jocelyn and Polly, downstairs, in the little lady's room, were conversing on the same subject.

It was Polly's first visit since the night she had sung to Burton Leonard, and they had talked of that any many other things.

"It is too bad for you to be shut up in a hospital all this beautiful summer," lamented Mrs. Jocelyn. "If I were only well, I'd carry you off home with me this very day, and we'd go driving out in the country, and have woodsy picnics, and all sorts of delightful things."

"I went to ride yesterday with Dr. Dudley," said Polly contentedly.

"Yes, that's all right as far as it goes; but your pleasures are too serious ones for the most part. You ought to be playing with dolls—without a care beyond them. By the way, I never have seen you with a doll yet."

"No, I have n't any," replied Polly sadly.

"But you have them up in the ward, don't you?"

"There's a little old rubber doll that somebody left because it had n't any squeak—that's all."

"For pity's sake!" exclaimed the little lady. "The idea!—not a single doll that can be called a doll! I never heard anything like it! What do yo play with? Or don't you play at all?"

"Oh, yes!" laughed Polly. "We play games, and Dr. Dudley has given me two story-books, and there are some toy soldiers—but they're 'most all broken now. Then there's a big book with pictures pasted in it—that's nice! There was Noah's Ark; but a little boy threw Noah and nearly all the animals out of the window, and before we found them the rain spoiled some of them, and the rest were lost."

"I declare, it's pitiful!" sorrowed the little lady.

"Oh, we have a nice time!" smiled Polly.

"I believe you'd find something to enjoy on a desert, without a soul within fifty miles!" laughed Mrs. Jocelyn.

"Guess I'd be lonesome!" chuckled Polly. "But I always thought the sand would be lovely to play in."

"There, I told you so! Oh, you'd have a good time! But, child, have n't you any doll of your own—at home, I mean?"

"No, not now—I did have"—and pain crept into the sweet little face. "Mamma gave me a pretty doll the last Christmas— oh, I loved it so! But after I went to live with Aunt Jane I helped her 'most all the time I was out of school, and I did n't have much time to play with Phebe—she was named for mamma. Phebe was mamma's name. So finally Aunt Jane said that Maude might just as well have my doll. I felt as if I could n't give her up, but I had to—" Polly's lip quivered, and she swallowed hard.

"Poor little girl!" Mrs. Jocelyn put out a hand and gently stroked the bright curls. "How could anybody be so cruel!"

"I would n't have cared—much, if Maude had loved Phebe; but she did n't. She'd swing her round by one leg, and pull her hair when she got mad, or—anything. It seemed as if I could n't stant it!"

"Bless you! I don't see how you could!" sympathized her listener.

"Why, I had to!" replied Polly simply. "But one day—I never told anybody this, even Miss Lucy—one day Aunt Jane took the children to a circus, and I stayed home all alone. After they'd been gone about half an hour I went and dug as deep a hole as I could right in the middle of the clothes-yard—the woman upstairs was gone, too, so she could n't see me—and I wrapped Phebe up in a clean piece of paper, after I'd kissed her and bid her good-bye—and then I buried her! It 'most killed me to do it; but I could n't see any other way. Do you think it was dreadfully wicked?"

Polly looked up with wet, appealing eyes, and, to her amazement, saw that tears were running down the little lady's cheeks.

"Wicked!" Mrs. Jocelyn ejaculated. "If nobody ever did anything more wicked than that it would be a blessed sort of world! NO, dearest; I'm glad you were brave enough to do it—as glad as can be! But what did they say when the came home? Did n't they miss the doll?"

"Not that night; they were so excited about the circus. They never said a word till some time the next morning; then Maude wondered where Phebe was. I was dreadfully afraid they'd ask me if I knew; but Maude only looked for her a little while—she did n't love her a bit. Aunt Jane told her she was probably kicking round somewhere, and it served her right for not taking better of her. I guess they forgot all about her pretty soon; but I did n't—I never shall forget Phebe!"

Mrs. Jocelyn put her arm around Polly, and held her close, murmuring sympathetic words, which were very comforting to the bereft little mother.

"How did Phebe look?" asked Mrs. Jocelyn, at last. "Do you want to tell me?"

"Oh, yes! She had light curly hair, just like mine, and such pretty blue eyes and red cheeks! She was about so tall," measuring a foot or more with her hands. "She had on a little white muslin dress, with blue sprigs on it—the other dresses Maude spoiled. She was just as sweet as she could be!" Polly's eyes almost brimmed over, and the lady gently led her thoughts to other things.

Soon Dr. Dudley came in, and then the little girl said good-bye.

On the stairs she heard her name called and looking back she saw Miss Hortensia Price, a bunch of sweet peas in her hand.

"I was bringing these to you," the nurse smiled. "How do you do, my dear? Are you feeling quite well again?"

"Oh, yes, thank you!" cried Polly, her little nose among the flowers. "Doctor would n't let me get up day before yesterday, and now I'm so rested I don't feel as if I'd ever get tired."

"I am very glad. I meant to come up to see you sooner, but I did n't wish to disturb you that first day, and yesterday I was extremely busy."

"Burton is not worse, is he?" asked Polly quickly.

"Oh, no! his is doing even better than we anticipated. And at last he has decided to keep still—did Dr. Dudley tell you?"

"Yes," beamed Polly, "and I'm so glad!"

"We all are. He has been a hard child to manage. We have much to thank you for—I shall never forget what you have done!"

Polly was astonished at this praise that she could do nothing but blush and murmur a few words of dissent.

"Burton's mother," Miss Price went on, "wishes you would come in some time and sing her that hymn again, the last one you sang, 'The King of Love my Shepherd is.'"

"Oh," smiled Polly, "I wish she could hear David sing that! He sings it beautifully! I never heard it till that night, so I did n't know it very well; but if she could come up into the ward, I'm sure David would sing it for her."

Miss Price seemed to ignore David altogether, for she only said:—

"Polly May, if you can learn like that, with your sweet voice,— why, you must have a musical education! I shall speak to Dr. Dudley about it at once. But I'm keeping you standing here, child, and you not strong!"

Polly assured her that she was not tired in the least, and thanked her again for the flowers. Then she ran upstairs, to tell the astonishing news to Miss Lucy and the ward, and to show her sweet peas in proof of Miss Hortensia Price's wonderful kindness.

After everybody had had a sniff of the fragrant blossoms, Polly proposed moving a little table to the side of David's cot, and placing the flowers on it.

"Because," she argued, "if David had n't sung the hymn that night, I could n't have and if I had n't, maybe Miss Price would n't have given me the sweet peas; so I think they belong to David as much as to me."

The children—all but David, and his protests went for naught—accepted Polly's reasoning as perfectly logical, and readily helped carry out her suggestion. Miss Lucy smiled to herself, while she allowed them to do as they pleased.

"Will they keep till to-morrow, s'pose?" Questioned Elsie anxiously.

"Of course," answered Polly. "Why?"

"Cause they'll help celebrate," Elsie returned.

"Celebrate what?" queried Polly, wiping a drop of overrunning water from the glass which Miss Lucy had supplied.

"Why, the war's birthday! Don't you know about it?" And Elsie looked her astonishment at having heard any new with which Polly was not already acquainted.

"I don't know what you mean," Polly replied.

Then what a babel of tongues! Each wanted to be first to inform Polly.

"The ward's five years old to-morrow!"—"Miss Lucy's been tellin' us!"—"it was started five years ago!"—"There was only three children in it then!"—"She said we ought to celebrate!"—"A lady give it to the hospital!"

"We'll every one wear a sweet pea all day!" announced Polly.

"That'll be lovely!" beamed Elsie.

"They'll wilt," objected practical Moses.

"Never mind!" returned Polly. "We can give 'em a drink once in a while."

So it was agreed. Meantime Miss Lucy, at her table, textbook in hand, overheard and wished and planned. Downstairs, too, where Mrs. Jocelyn sat talking with Dr. Dudley, more planning was going on, and in the physician's own heart a little private scheme was brewing. Thus the ward's birthday came nearer and more near.

The sweet peas were placed on a broad sill outside the window for the night, lest they might take it into their frail little heads to wither before their time. They showed their appreciation of Miss Lucy's thoughtfulness by being as sweet and bright as possible, and early in the morning everybody in the ward wore a decoration.

About ten o'clock Dr. Dudley appeared, and Polly and Elsie hurried to pin a posy in his buttonhole. Elsie had chosen a pink and Polly a blue blossom, and one little girl held them in place while the other pinned them fast, the Doctor sending telegraphic messages over their heads to Miss Lucy.

"Now, let me see," he began, after he had returned thanks for his sweets; "think I can squeeze in seven or eight of them?" nodding to the nurse.

"They're none of them very bulky," she laughed.

"Fell strong enough for an auto ride, Elsie?" he twinkled.

"Me?" gasped the little girl. "You don't mean me, do you?"

"If your name is Elsie Meyer, you're the one," he replied.

"Oh, my! O-h, m-y!" she cried. "Polly! Polly! He's goin' to take me to ride!" And she whirled Polly round and round in her excited joy.

"Cornelius and Moses," he counted, "and Elsie and Polly,"— his eyes had reached the little girl with a crutch, whose pale face was growing pink and paler by turns,—"and Leonora and Brida," he went on; "that makes six."

"Oh, me too?" squealed Brida delightedly, clutching her chair for support in the trying moment.

Leonora said nothing, only gazed at the Doctor as if she feared he would vanish, together with her promised ride, if she did not keep close watch.

"There are only two more for whom I dare risk the bumpety-bumps," laughed Dr. Dudley. "Corinne, I think you can bear them, and perhaps we can wedge in Isabel."

"Oh, we can hold her!" volunteered Elsie.

"Sure, we can!" echoed Cornelius.

"No, I want to thit in Polly'th lap," lisped the midget, edging away from the others, and doing her best to climb to Polly's arms.

Polly clasped the tiny one tight, smiling her promise, to full of joy in her friends' happiness for any words.

"I'll give you fifteen minutes to prink up in," the Doctor told them; and away they scampered, Polly halting by David's cot long enough to wish he "were going too."

The eight were downstairs within the specified time, and they whirled off in the big motor car, which seated them all comfortably without crowding anybody. Very demure they were, passing along the city streets, but in the open country their delight found vent in shouts and squeals and jubilant laughter. Dr. Dudley chose a route apart from the traveled highways, leading through woods and between blossoming fields.

"Could we get out and pick just a few o' those flowers?" Elsie ventured; and presently they were all over the stone wall, Leonora with the rest, right down among the goldenrod and asters.

The went home with their arms full of beauty, too overjoyed even to guess that they had been away nearly two whole hours, and that it was dinner time.

Leonora was first to discover it—the beautiful copy of the Sistine Madonna, hanging opposite David's bed. Then dinner had to wait, while they flocked over to look at Dr. Dudley's gift to the ward.

"Why, it's just like a story," cried Elsie. "Something keeps happening all the time."

Miss Lucy smiled mysteriously, which made Polly wonder if there were more happenings in reserve for the day.

Dinner was barely cleared away when a rap sent Moses to the door. There stood one of the porters grinning behind a pyramid of white boxes tied with gay ribbons.

Moses was too astonished for anything but speechlessly to let the man pass him. The pile was deposited beside the nurse, and Elsie squealed out:—

"They look 'xac'ly like Christmas!"

"Perhaps the inside will look like Christmas, too," smiled Miss Lucy. "Let's see what this card says:—'For the young folds of the Convalescent Ward, in honor of the Ward's fifth birthday. From Mrs Juliet P. Jocelyn.'

"This box is addressed to Miss Polly May;" and she handed out the one on top.

Polly received it with an "Oh, thank you!" A sudden tumultuous hope had sprung in her heart, and she gazed down at the oblong box with a mingled anticipation and fear. What could it be but—! Yet what if it should n't be! With trembling fingers she hurriedly untied the blue ribbon. She hardly dared lift the cover; but—it was!

"Oh, Phebe!" she cried, with almost a sob, clasping the beautiful doll to her heart.

It was not Phebe, but so nearly like the cherished one it was not surprising in that first ecstatic moment Polly should think it was really her los darling. Golden curls, blue eyes, and a frock of white muslin with blue sprigs made the resemblance very true. In her own bliss, Polly for a minute, forgot her surroundings. Then she became suddenly aware that Elsie was dancing about, shrieking with delight, holding a doll the counterpart of Polly's own, except for the color of dress and eyes.

Brida's doll had blue eyes, alike the new Phebe, and Leonora's brown, like Elsie's.

Miss Lucy could not untie the boxes fast enough now, the children were so wildly excited. Every girl had a beautiful doll, and every boy a gift that made him shout in glee or wrapped him in speechless joy, according to his nature.

"How did she know I'd ruther have 'em than anything in th' biggest store you ever saw?" cried Cornelius, with a yell of rapture, throwing off the cover of his box to see a ball, a bat, and a catcher's mitt. "How did she did she know it?"

The other big boys had similar presents and the younger lads mechanical toys of various kinds,—Railway and Track, Steamer, Automobile, Fire Engine, and a real little Flying Machine. Besides these there were a number of fascinating games and a box of stone blocks.

In the late afternoon some of the nurses made a brief visit, bringing their combined gift,—a dozen books and a shelf to keep them on. Miss Price, who could not leave her patient, sent a set of crayons and outline picture-books to color. And so one delight followed another until the children were in a state of the happiest excitement.

Just before supper time Dr. Dudley came in, full of merriment and droll stories.

The tea was there on time, a regular "party tea," with a birthday cake and five small candles. The goodies seemed ready to be eaten; the little folks were eager to taste; still Miss Lucy did not give the word. She and the Doctor would turn towards the door at the slightest sound; then they would go on talking again. Finally Polly's sharp ears heard footsteps, approaching footsteps. Dr. Dudley listened, jumped up, and slipped outside the door, shutting it behind him. The steps drew nearer, there were low voices and faint laughter. Then something like a small commotion seemed to be taking place just outside. Elsie's impatience let loose her tongue.

"Oh, Miss Lucy! What is it? Do tell us! Please do!"

"In a minute there'll be no need of telling," was the smiling answer.

At the instant a light rap sent Polly and Elsie flying to the door. Polly was ahead and threw it wide open on a pretty picture, —little Mrs. Jocelyn seated in a wheel chair, Dr. Dudley and a porter in the background.

"Oh, o-h!" cried Polly, "how perfectly lovelicious!" And she stepped aside to let the guest roll herself in.

Miss Lucy came forward with a glad greeting, while the flock of girls and boys retreated, struck with sudden shyness.

Polly laid hold of Elsie and Leonora. "come!" she whispered. "Come, and shake hands with her!"

"No, no! I can't!" gasped Leonora, terrified at the thought of speaking to that beautiful little white-haired lady in the exquisite gray silk.

"Yes, come!" urged Polly. "She gave us our dolls, and we must thank her!" Her hand on Leonora's gave the timid girl courage, and she allowed herself to be led towards the wheel chair.

They were all presented by name, and Mrs. Jocelyn won the girls' hearts with kisses and kindly words, while the boys, from Cornelius O'Shaughnessy to little John Fritz, were so charmed by her interest in their sports that they afterwards voted her "a dandy one"—their highest praise.

The tea went off, as all party teas ought to go, to the music of merry laughter; and when the ice cream came on, the children's glee reached its height—it was in the form of a quaint little girls and boys!

It was nearly bedtime when the last gift arrived. The parcel was oblong and flat and heavy.

"I bet it's another picture!" ventured Moses.

Polly fairly shouted when Miss Lucy folded back the wrappings. There lay a superb photograph, handsomely framed in oak, of Lone Star and his master. The note accompanied it:—

To the Children's Convalescent Ward:

Dear Ward:—News has just come that you are having a birthday. I congratulate you on having lived and prospered for five long years. As I have counted only four birthdays myself, I have great respect for those that have attained to five.

I cannot let the day pass without sending you a small token of neighborly affection, and because the hour is late and I have nothing better in sight I trust you will pardon my seeming egotism in presenting my own picture.

Wish bushels of joyful wishes for you future, I will sign myself

Your fast friend,

Lone Star



Chapter XI

Polly Plays the Part of Eva

Summer still lingered, but signs were abroad of her coming departure. Noons were hot, and nights were chill; bird carols were infrequent; chrysanthemums were unfurling their buds. The vines that festooned the windows of the children's convalescent ward sent an occasional yellow-coated messenger to the lilac bushes below—a messenger that never came back.

Inside the ward there were even greater changes. Of the old set of summer patients only a few remained to keep Polly company. Elsie and Brida, Corinne and Isabel, with Moses and Cornelius, had received their discharge and had returned to their homes. Leonora stayed for more of the treatment that was slowly lessening her lameness and pain. David had so far recovered as to have been appointed office boy for Dr. Dudley, a position which was, according to David's version, "all pay and no work." But somebody was needed to answer telephone calls during the physician's absence, as well as to note any messages that might arrive for him, and David's strength was now sufficient for the service. So the arrangement was proving a very happy one, and was especially enjoyed by Polly and Leonora.

As their acquaintances drifted away from the hospital, and strangers drifted in, these three became close friends. The girls would join David in the office, generally bringing their dolls with them, when David would be the one to tell or read a story, for his aunt kept him well supplied with interesting tales. Sometimes, especially in the early twilight hour, Dr. Dudley was story-teller; or more often they would talk over together the happenings of the day, the children unconsciously gathering from the physician's rich store bits of wisdom that would abide with them as long as memory lived.

They were watching for him, one night, when the telephone bell rang.

David sprang to answer the call, and the girls heard him say:—

"No, sir, he is not in.—He went out about an hour ago.—We expect him every minute now.—Yes, sir, I will."

The boy came back looking a little excited.

"It was Uncle David!" he told them. "He says he is sick, and he wants Dr. Dudley to come over."

"Oh, dear," scowled Polly; "I hope ther is n't anything bad the matter with him!"

"It is the first time I ever spoke to him," said David slowly. "But, of course, he did n't know it was I that was talking."

"There's the Doctor!" cried Leonora, as a runabout stopped at the entrance.

"Shall I go tell him?" and Polly started. But the lad was already on his way.

"Let me, please!" he answered. "I want to do that much for Uncle David."

"I thought it might tire him to go fast," murmured Polly, apologetically, as she joined Leonora at the window.

"He'll get all out of breath!" worried Leonora. "Just see him run!"

"He is n't thinking of himself," Polly responded. "It's just like him! But his heart is pretty strong now, I guess. Though Doctor told him to be careful."

David returned a little pale, and Polly made him lie down on the couch.

He did not seem inclined to talk, and the girls waited at the window, conversing in low tones over their dolls. By and by Dr. Dudley came up the walk, and Polly ran to open the door for him.

The physician acknowledged the attention with a grave smile, and then went directly to the telephone, calling for Miss Batterson.

David sat up. The girls listened breathlessly.

Presently they heard arrangements being made for the nurse to go to the Colonel at once, and they gathered from what was said that David's great-uncle was ill with typhoid fever, and that the Doctor had ordered him to bed.

"He has kept up too long," regretted Dr. Dudley, as he hung the receiver on its hook. "As it is he'll have to go through a course of fever. He is furious at the prospect, but it can't be helped.

"I'm so sorry," mourned Polly.

Then, seeing that there was no likelihood of a story or even talk from the Doctor, she proposed, softly to Leonora, that they go upstairs.

"No, stay here with David, if you wish; you're not in the way. I'm going back with Miss Batterson."

So they remained, while the physician put some medicines in his case, and gave David directions regarding a problem caller.

Soon the nurse came in, suit case in hand, and the two went off together.

"I hope mother won't hear of it right away," the lad mused. "She thinks so much of Uncle David. She'd want to go and do something for him, you know, and she could n't, and so she'd worry."

Polly recalled her recent drive through Forest Park, and could scarcely realize that the big, strong man who had made the time so pleasant for her was now weak and miserable from disease.

David related incidents of his mother's life with her uncle when she was a small girl, one leading to another, until, suddenly, Dr. Dudley opened the door.

"What!" he exclaimed. "My girlies not abed yet! Why, it is nearly nine o'clock! Miss Lucy will think I have kidnapped you."

They hurried away, with laughing good-nights, after being assured by the Doctor that probably Colonel Gresham would "come out all right."

David slept downstairs now, in a tiny room adjoining the physician's, and his last thought that night was of the strangeness of it all—Uncle David's hurrying to catch Dr. Dudley for him, and his being the first to notify the Doctor of his uncle's illness, while they had not even a bowing acquaintance with each other!

For a few days there was no alarming change in colonel Gresham's condition. Then he grew worse. He became delirious, and remained so, recognizing no one. The anxiety felt in Dr. Dudley's office extended upstairs to the little people of the convalescent ward, for since the Colonel's birthday gift they had taken great interest in the master of the famous trotter. Every morning they were eager for the latest news from the second house away where their friend lay so ill.

The twentieth of September was hot and oppressive. Early in the evening thunder clouds heaped the western sky, and occasional flashes of lightning portended a shower.

After the children were established for the night, Miss Lucy sat long by the open window watching the electrical display. The clouds rose slowly, lingering beyond the western hills with no wind to aid their progress. Finally she partly undressed, and throwing on a kimono settled herself comfortably upon her cot, to await the uncertain storm, ready to shut the windows in case of driving rain. By and by fitful breezes fluttered through the room, the low rumbling of thunder was heard, and presently a soft patter of drops on the leaves. The lightning grew brilliant. The nurse dreamed and waked by turns. At length she was aroused by steps along the corridor. They sounded like Dr. Dudley's. S She was at the door as the physician's knuckle touched it. In response to his voice she stepped outside, that they might not disturb the sleepers.

"I want to take Polly over to Colonel Gresham's," the Doctor explained. "He keeps on calling for 'Eva,' and nothing will quite him. He is on the verge of collapse."

"Did n't Mrs. Collins come?"

"Yes; but he did n't know her. It broke her all up. I think now that he has gone back to the time when she was a little girl, and possibly has confounded her with Polly. At any rate, I'm going to try the experiment of taking Polly over. It can do no harm, and may do some good."

The hall suddenly burst into light, and there was a simultaneous roar of thunder.

"We're going to have a shower," observed the Doctor.

"I should think it was already here," returned Miss Lucy. "Had n't you better wait till it passes, before taking Polly out?"

"Oh, no! Wrap her up well, and I'll carry her. It is only a few stops; she won't get wet."

Polly was a quaint little figure in the long mackintosh, and it tripped her feet once or twice, until the doctor drew it from her and threw it across his arm.

The thunder had been lighter for some minutes; but as they halted at the entrance before going out a tremendous crash jarred the building.

"Not afraid, Thistledown?" smiled Dr. Dudley, as he wrapped her again in the long cloak.

"I don't like it," she confessed; "but I shan't mind with you," putting her arms around his neck.

The rain was pouring as they left the piazza, and before they were off the grounds big stones of hail were pelting their umbrella. The Doctor hurried along, the lightning glaring about them and the air filled with thunder.

Colonel Gresham's house was nearly reached, when a sudden gust turned the umbrella, and almost at once came a blaze of light and a terrific crash—a great oak across the street had been split from top to root!

With a gasp of terror Polly clung to the Doctor's neck, and he sped up the walk on a quick run.

"There!" he exclaimed, setting her down inside the door, "You're safe and sound! But next time we'll take Miss Lucy's advice, and not run any such risks."

"It was awful, was n't it?" breathed Polly.

"A little too close for comfort," he smiled, taking her wet coat and spreading it over a chair.

At the foot of the stairs he halted for a few instructions.

"Humor the Colonel in every way possible," he told Polly. "If he names you 'Eva," let him think he is right, and call him 'Uncle David.'"

"I'm afraid I shall make a mistake," replied Polly.

"You won't," he assured her. "Just imagine you are his little niece, doing everything to please him—that is all."

Miss Batterson smiled down on Polly, as she entered the sick-room, and spoke in a low voice to the physician.

Colonel Gresham had been muttering indistinctly, and now broke into his persistent call:—

"Eva! Eva! Where's Eva?"

Dr. Dudley gave Polly a gentle push towards the bed.

"Here I am, Uncle David!" she answered, standing where the light slanted across her yellow curls.

The sick man started up, and then dropped back on his pillow.

"Oh, you've come!" he cried, with a breath of relief, "Why did you stay away—so—long?"

"I did n't know you wanted me till now, Uncle David," replied the soft voice.

"Come nearer, child! Let me feel you little hand! I dreamed—I dreamed—you were gone—forever!"

"He lay quiet for a moment, her cool fingers in his hot, trembling palm. Then he startled her bu the sudden cry:—

"That water! It's dripping, dripping right on my head! Eva, put up your hand, and catch it!"

Standing beside his pillow, Polly held her hand high.

"I'll catch it all, Uncle David," she assured him. "You shan't feel another drop!"

"That's a good girl! You always are a good girl, Eva! Seems as —if—"

The voice trailed off into confused mutterings, and with trembling fingers he began picking at the sheet and working it into tiny rolls.

Very gently Polly took one of the restless hands in both her own, and smoothed it tenderly.

This had a quieting effect, and he lay still for so long that Dr. Dudley drew Polly softly away, letting her rest on his knee, her head against his shoulder.

But in a moment the old call burst out:—

"Eva! Eva! Where are you, Eva?"

Her prompt assurance, "I'm right here, Uncle David!" hushed him at once. Presently, however, he began again.

"Eva! Eva! You love your old uncle, don't you, Eva? Just a— little—bit?"

"More than a little bit! I love you dearly, Uncle David!"

"Don't go away any more! Promise, Eva! Promise me!"

"I'll stay just as long as you want me Uncle David. Can't you go to sleep? Remember, I'll be right here all the time!"

Reassured by this, he closed his eyes, and was quiet for a while; yet only to rouse again and repeat the same old cry.

The thunder was now only an occasional rumble in the distance, and the lightning had faded to a glimmer; but the rain still kept on, and as the nurse raised another window the ceaseless patter of the drops seemed to disturb the sick man, for he began his complaint of the dripping water upon his head.

Polly pacified him, as before, and once more he drowsed.

The little girl slept, to, in the Doctor's arms, until, towards morning the Colonel was resting so calmly that they returned to the hospital.

Miss Lucy clasped Polly with almost a sob.

"If you ever go away again in such a storm," she declared, "I shall go, too! I saw the lightning come down—and—" her voice broke.

"And we were not harmed in the least," finished the Doctor cheerily. "But next time I promise to act upon your higher wisdom, and not venture among such thunderbolts. Now, hustle into bed, both of you, and don't dare to wake up till breakfast time!"

The convalescent ward slept late; the nurse and Polly strictly obeyed orders. Nobody cared, however, and unusual gayety prevailed at the tardy breakfast, to match the bright September morning and the good news of Colonel Gresham. For word had come up from Dr. Dudley that the Colonel was going to get well.

Of course the children eagerly heard the story of Polly's midnight trip in the physician's arms through the fearful storm. It had to be told over and over again, and the more daring ones wished they had been awake to see it all.

The details of what had taken place in the sick-room Polly wisely withheld; but the girls and boys were undoubtedly more interested in the account of the lightning's striking the familiar big oak tree than they would have been in the more important part of that night's strange story.

It was not many weeks afterward that Dr. Dudley brought Polly a message.

"The Colonel says he feels slighted because you don't come to see him, and I promised to send you over."

"OH, I shall have to go!" cried Polly. "I'll run right off and change my dress."

Colonel Gresham was in a great chair by the window, and begged his small guest pardon for not rising to greet her.

"I'm not quite firm on my legs yet," he laughed, "and I must n't topple over, as Miss Batterson has left me for a whole hour."

"Oh, then I'll stay and wait on you!" beamed Polly. "And if you get tired hearing me talk, you can go to sleep."

But the Colonel seemed very wide awake, and after a gay chat he began:—

"Dr. Dudley has been telling me about bringing you over here in that thunderstorm, and how you quieted me when nobody else could."

"Yes," replied Polly innocently, "You thought I was your little niece, Eva, and—"

"What?" broke in her listener, amazement in his tone.

"Oh, I s'posed he 'd told you!" cried Polly, in dismay. "I ought not to have—"

"Yes, you ought!" he interrupted. "What did I say?"

Polly hesitated. She was not at all sure that Dr. Dudley would wish her to disclose the wanderings of the Colonel's mind, since he had not done so himself. But there seemed no other way, so she replied simply:—

"Oh, you did n't say much! Only you kept calling for Eva, and so I pretended I was she, and I called you Uncle David. And you heard the rain, and thought it was dripping on your head, and you wanted me to hold my hand up to catch it. That was about all."

Polly cast furtive glances at the Colonel. She could make nothing of his face, beyond that it was very grave. She wondered if he were displeased with her.

After a time he spoke.

"You have done me a kindness that can never be repaid. Such debts cannot be balanced with money. So we won't talk about pay. But I should like to do something for you—give you a sort of remembrance. I don't know what would make you happiest; but you may chose, 'to the half of my kingdom'—anything but Lone Star. I'm afraid I should hate to give up Lone Star!"

Polly laughed, and the Colonel laughed too, which put the talk on a cheery footing, and she assured him that she should n't have chosen Lone Star anyway, because she did n't know how to take care of a horse, and had n't any place to keep him in.

Then her face grew suddenly serious, and she sat gazing at the pattern of the rug so long that Colonel Gresham smiled to himself.

"Is it too much of a problem?" he finally asked. "Can't you think of anything within my power that would give you a little happiness?"

"Oh, yes!" Polly answered quickly; "but I'm afraid—" she stopped.

"Afraid of what?" he questioned.

"Afraid it is too much to ask," she replied softly, lifting her thoughtful eyes to his.

"No, it is n't! Anything that will add to your happiness—"

"Oh, this would make me very happy!"

"Out with it then! 'To the half of my kingdom,' remember!"

"And you won't be offended?"

"I give you my word," he smiled.

"Well," she began slowly, "I should like best of all to have you —oh, I wish you would forgive David's mother, and love her again! She loves you so much!"

For several minutes—it seemed an hour to Polly—the marble clock over the fireplace, with the bronze mother and child sitting there, tick-tocked its way uninterruptedly. The little girl did not dare to look up. Her heart beat very fast indeed. It hurt her to breathe. Had she made Colonel Gresham so angry that he would never speak to her again? She wondered how long it would be before she could gain enough courage for just one glance at his face. The he spoke.

"You have given me a hard task, little Polly! It would be easier to go through the fever again!" His voice was gentle—very gentle, but sad.

"Oh, please, please excuse me!" she exclaimed earnestly. "I ought not to have asked it! I'll take it all back! You said what would make me happiest—and so—and so—" She put her face down in her hands. "I did n't mean to hurt you!" she sobbed, "I did n't! I did n't!"

"Child! Child! This will never do! It is I who am wholly to blame! You have done nothing to excuse. I shall keep my promise to you, if you are sure that what you have asked will give you the greatest happiness."

He waited for her answer—Polly never guessed with what selfish longing.

Her face burst into radiance.

"Oh, will you!" she exclaimed. "It will make me so happy, happy, I shan't know what to do!"

Colonel Gresham was very pale, but Polly did not notice. She was looking through rose-colored glasses.

"Is David still at the hospital?" the Colonel inquired.

"Yes, sir; he stays in Dr. Dudley's office now, to answer the telephone and attend to things. He's almost well."

"Well enough to walk over here, think?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" Polly beamed.

"Suppose you run and fetch him then. Say to him that I should like to make his acquaintance."

Polly needed no urging for such a blissful errand, and in her excitement failed to hear the Doctor's approaching footsteps. At the threshold she nearly ran into his arms.

"Why such haste, Thistledown? Have you and Colonel Gresham quarreled?"

"Oh, no! I'm going after David. Do you care if he leaves the office for just a little while?"

"Certainly not. Tell him from me that he can come."

If the Doctor felt any surprise, neither his voice nor his face showed it.

It cost Polly a deal of talk to convince David that his uncle had actually sent for him, and then, after he had said that he would go, he was afraid that his clothes were not just right for such a visit.

"Never mind you clothes!" cried Polly. "He'll never know what you have on."

"Well, I must brush my hair," delayed the boy, dreading the ordeal before him.

"Oh, you hair's well enough! Don't flat it down! It's so pretty as it is now—all curly and fluffy!"

So they were finally started, Polly talking so fast that David had small chance for nervousness or fear.

Dr. Dudley was not in sight when the children entered Colonel Gresham's room, and Polly made a silent wild guess regarding his speedy going away. To David's pleasure the Colonel received him as he would have received any other lad whom Polly had brought for a call. There was no reference to his mother or to their kinship, and the boy began at once to feel at ease. He inquired about his recent injury and his stay at the hospital, and then, by a chance remark of Polly's, the subject of David's church singing was brought up.

Conversation had not begun to flag, when Polly spied the Doctor's auto at the curb. Mrs. Collins was stepping out!

David's sentence broke off square in the middle; but Colonel Gresham did not appear to notice. Footsteps neared the door, and the children sat breathless; yet the Colonel still talked on as quietly as before.

When the door opened, Polly saw his fingers grip the arms of his chair. His voice faltered off into silence.

Dr. Dudley stepped aside, and David's mother appeared on the threshold, a little slight, fair-haired woman, her face now pink with emotion, her eyes big and shining.

The held out both hands; there was a swish of skirts an something like a sob.

Polly heard, "Eva!"—"Oh, Uncle David!" Then she slipped out to the Doctor, and he softly shut the door.

They went downstairs hand in hand, and so to the street.

"We'll have a little ride," he proposed, "to let off steam. There are n't any patients that will hurt by waiting."

The car passed slowly up the pleasant street.

"Thistledown," he said tenderly, "you have accomplished a blessed work this morning."

"Why," exclaimed Polly, in surprise, "I have n't done a single thing—only go after David! It's the Colonel that's done it all! But is n't it splendid of him? Are n't you glad for David?"

"I am glad for them all. It is what I feared never would come to pass. Colonel Gresham is sure to like David, and it is going to mean everything for the boy."



Chapter XII

The Kidnapping of Polly

"Mamma and I are going to live with Uncle David." So the boy told Polly late that afternoon. "He says he has lost time enough, and now we must come as soon as we can pack up."

"Is n't that splendid!" beamed Polly, thinking she had never seen David look so happy or so handsome.

"Uncle David is nicer—a great deal nicer—than I dreamed he could be. O Polly, I can't thank you enough!"

"Thank me?" repeated Polly. "What for?"

"Polly May!" and David gazed at her incredulously. Then he laughed.

"Oh, you little bunch of unselfishness!" he cried. "I believe you have n't the least idea that Uncle David's making up with us is all your doing!"

"Why, David Collins, it is n't! I just told him it would make me happy if he would—that's all!"

"Just as I said!" he laughed. "O Polly, Polly! Don't you see— no, no, I'd rather you would n't! Don't try to see!"

"I could n't!" chuckled Polly. "There is n't anything to see!"

"All right! It's grand anyway! Mamma looks so much prettier and younger! Oh, you can't think how happy—"

The telephone cut off his sentence, and he ran across the office.

He listened a moment; then Polly heard him say, "She is right here. If you'll wait, please, I'll ask her."

David turned from the instrument. "It is Mrs. Jocelyn," he explained. "She wants you to come up there to-morrow afternoon, and stay all night and next day. Her cousin's little girl— Dorothy Cannon, I think the name is—will be there, and she wants you too."