POLLY
OF LADY GAY COTTAGE

BY

EMMA C. DOWD

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY EMMA C. DOWD

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HAROLD WESTWOOD!

TO
MY CRITIC, COUNSELOR
AND COMRADE

CONTENTS

POLLY OF LADY GAY
COTTAGE

CHAPTER I

THE ROSEWOOD BOX

The telephone bell cut sharp into Polly’s story.

She was recounting one of the merry hours that Mrs. Jocelyn had given to her and Leonora, while Dr. Dudley and his wife were taking their wedding journey. Still dimpling with laughter, she ran across to the instrument; but as she turned back from the message her face was troubled.

“Father says I am to come right over to the hospital,” she told her mother. “Mr. Bean—you know, the one that married Aunt Jane—has got hurt, and he wants to see me. I hope he isn’t going to die. He was real good to me that time I was there, as good as he dared to be.”

“I will go with you,” Mrs. Dudley decided.

And, locking the house, they went out into the early evening darkness.

The physician was awaiting them in his office.

“Is he badly hurt?” asked Polly anxiously. “What does he want to see me for?”

“We are afraid of internal injury,” was the grave answer. “He was on his way to you when the car struck him.”

“To me?” Polly exclaimed.

“He was fetching a little box that belonged to your mother. Do you recollect it—a small rosewood box?”

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “I’d forgotten all about it—there’s a wreath of tiny pearl flowers on the cover!”

The Doctor nodded.

“Mr. Bean seems to attach great value to the box or its contents.”

“Oh, what is in it?”

“I don’t know. But he kept tight hold of it even after he was knocked down, and it was the first thing he called for when he regained consciousness. I thought he had better defer seeing you until to-morrow morning; but he wouldn’t hear to it. So I let him have his own way.”

“Have you sent word to Aunt Jane?” inquired Polly, instinctively shrinking from contact with the woman in whose power she had lived through those dreadful years.

Dr. Dudley gave a smiling negative. “He begged me not to let her know.”

“I don’t blame him!” Polly burst out. “I guess he’s glad to get away from her, if he did have to be hurt to do it.”

“Probably he wishes first to make sure that the box is in your hands,” observed the Doctor, rising. “She will have to be notified. Come, we will go upstairs. The sooner the matter is off Mr. Bean’s mind, the better.”

Polly was dismayed at sight of the little man’s face. In their whiteness his pinched features seemed more wizen than ever. But his smile of welcome was eager.

“How do you do, my dear? My dear!” the wiry hand was extended with evident pain.

Polly squeezed it sympathetically, and told him how sorry she was for his accident.

Mr. Bean gazed at her with tender, wistful eyes.

“My little girl was ’most as big as you,” he mused. “Not quite; she wasn’t but six when she—went. But you look consider’ble like her—wish’t I had a picture o’ Susie! I wish’t I had!” He drew his breath hard.

Polly patted the wrinkled hand, not knowing what to say.

“But I’ve got a picture here you’ll like,” the little man brightened. “Yer’ll like it first-rate.”

His hand moved gropingly underneath the bed covers, and finally brought out the little box that Polly instantly recognized.

“Oh, thank you! How pretty it is!” She received it with a radiant smile.

Mr. Bean’s face grew suddenly troubled.

“Yer mustn’t blame Jane too much,” he began pleadingly. “I guess she kind o’ dassent give it to yer, so long afterwards. It’s locked,”—as Polly pulled at the cover,—“and there ain’t no key,” he mourned. “I do’ know what Jane’s done with it. Yer’ll have to git another,—there wa’n’t no other way.” His voice was plaintive.

“That’s all right,” Polly reassured him.

The pleasure of once more holding the little box in her hand was enough for the moment.

“I see it in her bureau drawer the day we was first married,” he went on reminiscently, “an’ she opened it and showed me what was in it. Ther’ ’s a picture of yer mother—”

“Oh!” Polly interrupted excitedly, “of mamma?”

“Yis, so she said. Looks like you, too,—same kind o’ eyes. It was goin’ to be for your birthday—that’s what she had it took for, Jane said.”

Polly had been breathlessly following his words, and now broke out in sudden reproach:—

“Oh! why didn’t Aunt Jane let me have it! How could she keep it, when I wanted a picture of mamma so!”

The reply did not come at once. A shadow of pain passed over the man’s face, leaving it more drawn and pallid.

“It’s too bad!” he lamented weakly. “I tol’ Jane so then; but she thought ’twould kind o’ upset yer, likely, and so—” His voice faltered. He began again bravely. “You mustn’t blame Jane too much, my dear! Jane’s got some good streaks, real good streaks.”

Polly looked up from the little box. Her eyes were wet, but she smiled cheerfully into the anxious face.

“I ought not to blame her, now she’s sent it,” she said sweetly; “and I thank you ever so much for bringing it.”

A hint of a smile puckered the thin lips.

“Guess if I’d waited f’r her to send it,” he murmured, “’t ’ud been the mornin’ Gabriel come! But Jane’s got her good streaks,” he apologized musingly.

Then he lay silent for a moment, feeling after courage to go on.

“Ther’ ’s a letter, too,” he finally hazarded. “Jane said it was about some rich relations o’ yours some’er’s—I forgit where. She said likely they wouldn’t care nothin’ ’bout you, seein’ ’s they never’d known yer, and it would only put false notions into yer head, and so she didn’t”—he broke off, his eyes pleading forgiveness for the woman whose “good streaks” needed constant upholding.

But Polly was quite overlooking Aunt Jane. This astonishing bit of news had thrown her mind into a tumult, and she breathlessly awaited additional items.

They were slow in coming, and she grew impatient.

“What relatives are they?” she prodded. “Papa’s, or mamma’s?”

Mr. Bean could not positively say. He had not read the letter, and recollected little that his wife had told him.

“Seems kind o’ ’s if they was Mays,” he mused; “but I ain’t noways sure. Anyhow they was millionaires, Jane said she guessed, and she was afraid ’t ’ud spile yer to go and live with ’em,—”

At this juncture Dr. Dudley interposed, his fingers trying his patient’s pulse.

“No more visiting to-night,” he smiled, yet the smile was grave and of short life.

Polly went away directly, carrying the little rosewood box, after again expressing her grateful thanks to Mr. Bean.

Down in the office her tongue ran wild, until her mother was quite as excited as she. But there was a difference; Polly’s wondering thoughts flew straight to her lips, Mrs. Dudley’s stayed in her heart, restless and fearsome.

Next morning the injured man seemed no worse, though the physicians still had grave doubts of his recovery. Dr. Dudley, while appreciating Mr. Bean’s kind intentions towards Polly, and putting out of account the serious accident, grimly wished to himself that the little man had suffered the rosewood box to remain hidden in his wife’s bureau drawer. Of course, Polly was legally his own, yet these unknown relatives of hers,—with what convincing arguments might they confront him, arguments which he could not honestly refute! Yet he carried the box to the locksmith’s, and he conjectured cheerfully with Polly regarding the contents of the letter.

Late in the afternoon he put both box and key into Polly’s hands.

“Oh!” she squealed delightedly. “Have you opened it?”

“Most certainly not. That pleasure is left for you.”

She eagerly placed the key in the lock, and carefully raised the cover.

A folded tissue paper lay on top, which she caught up, and the photograph was disclosed.

“Mamma!” she half sobbed, pressing the picture to her lips.

But Dr. Dudley scarcely noticed her emotion, for the displacement of the card had revealed only an empty box—the letter was gone! He looked across at his wife, and their eyes met in perfect understanding. The moment they had both dreaded was postponed, and they felt a sudden relief. Still, there had been a letter, the Doctor silently reasoned, and sooner or later its contents must be faced.

“See!” Polly was holding before him the portrait of a lovely, girlish woman, with dark, thoughtful eyes and beautiful, curving mouth.

“It looks just like her!” came in tremulous tones. “Isn’t she sweet?” She leaned lightly against her father, drawing a long breath of joy and sorrow.

As he threw his arm about her, the Doctor could feel her efforts to be calm.

“But where’s the letter?” she asked, with sudden recollection, turning from their satisfying praise of the one she loved, to gaze into the empty box. She regarded it disappointedly when she heard the truth.

“Now I shan’t ever know,” she lamented, “whether I have any grandfather or grandmother, or uncles or aunts,—or anybody! And I thought, may be, there’d be some cousins too! But, then,” she went on cheerfully, “it isn’t as if the letter was from somebody I’d ever known. I’m glad it is that that’s lost, instead of this,” clasping the photograph to her heart.

Mrs. Dudley glanced over to her husband. “Better not tell her!” his eyes said, and her own agreed. It seemed that Polly did not dream of what was undoubtedly the case,—that the letter was from her mother, written as a birthday accompaniment to the picture, and giving hitherto withheld information concerning her kindred.

It was far better for Polly’s peace of heart that the probable truth was not even surmised, and presently she carried the photograph up to her own little room, there to feast her eyes upon the well-remembered face until time was forgotten.

CHAPTER II

LEONORA’S WONDERFUL NEWS

“

Polly!”

Dr. Dudley waited at the foot of the short staircase. He had just come in from an early morning visit to a hospital patient.

“Yes, father,” floated down to him, followed by a scurry of light feet in the corridor overhead.

Directly Polly appeared at the top of the flight, one side of her hair in soft, smooth curls, the other a mass of fluffy waves.

“Leonora sent word for you to come over ‘just as soon as you possibly can,’” smiled the Doctor. “She has something to tell you.”

“I don’t see what it can be,” replied Polly. “Do you know, father?”

“You wouldn’t wish me to rob Leonora of the first telling of her news,” he objected.

“No,” she admitted slowly; “but I can’t imagine why she’s in such a hurry. I wonder if she is to stay at the hospital longer than she expected—that isn’t it, is it?”

Dr. Dudley shook his head.

“My advice is to make haste with your toilet and run over to the hospital and find out.”

“Yes,” Polly agreed, “I will.” Yet she stood still, her forehead puckered over the possible good things that could have happened to her friend.

Dr. Dudley turned away, and then halted.

“Isn’t your mother waiting for you?” he suggested.

“Oh, I forgot!” she cried, and flew back to where Mrs. Dudley sat, brush and comb in hand.

“How my hair grows!” commented Polly, after discussing the news awaiting her, and silently concluding that whatever her mother knew she did not intend to disclose. “It will be a year next week since it was cut. I shall have mermaid tresses before I know it. Isn’t it nice that I was hurt? Because if I hadn’t been I should never have known you and father. Did you expect to marry him when he took you to ride on Elsie’s birthday?”

“Of course not!” laughed Mrs. Dudley. “You were a roguish little match-maker!”

“I never thought of that,” returned Polly. “I only wanted you to have a good time.”

“I had it,” her mother smiled, tying a ribbon to hold the bright curls. “There!” with a final pluck at the bow; “now run along and hear Leonora’s glad story! I am afraid she will be getting impatient.”

As Polly skipped up to the hospital entrance, the door flew open, and Leonora, smiling rapturously, ran to meet her.

“What is it?” entreated Polly. “I can’t wait another minute!”

“Seem’s if I couldn’t, too! I thought you’d never come! What do you think, Polly May Dudley! I’m goin’ to live with Mrs. Jocelyn!—all the time!—forever! She’s adopted me!”

Polly stared, and then let out her astonishment in a big “O-h!” This was, indeed, something unguessable. “Isn’t that lovely!” she cried in delight. “I’m so glad!—just as glad as I can be!”

“Of course you are! Everybody is,” Leonora responded blissfully. They went in doors arm in arm, stopping in Dr. Dudley’s office, their tongues more than keeping pace with their steps.

“I shouldn’t think your father and mother would want to give you up,” observed practical Polly.

“I guess they’re glad,” Leonora replied. “Prob’ly I wouldn’t go if they were my own; but I don’t belong to them.”

“You don’t?”

“Why, no. My mother died when I was three years old. I can only just remember her. In a little while father married again, and pretty soon he died—he was awful good to me! I cried when they said he wasn’t goin’ to get well. Then my stepmother married Mr. Dinnan. So, you see, I ain’t any relation really, and they’re prob’ly glad not to have me to feed any more. And I guess I’m glad—my! But I can’t b’lieve it yet! Say, I’m goin’ to your school, and Mrs. Jocelyn is comin’ to take me out in her carriage this forenoon to buy me some new clothes!”

Polly’s radiant face was enough to keep Leonora’s tongue lively.

“She’s goin’ to fix me up a room right next to hers, all white and pink! And she’s goin’ to get me a beautiful doll house and some new dolls—she says I can pick ’em out myself! And—what do you think!—she said last night she guessed she’d have to get me a pair of ponies and a little carriage just big enough for you and me, and have me learn to drive ’em!”

“O-h! won’t you be grand!” beamed Polly.

And then, while Leonora chattered on, came to her a picture of that afternoon—so far away it seemed!—when she had been folded in Mrs. Jocelyn’s arms, to be offered these same pleasures, and which she had refused for love of Dr. Dudley, although the thought of calling him father had never then come to her. How glad she was that she had not mentioned this! She had always had an intuitive feeling that the concern was Mrs. Jocelyn’s, to be kept as her secret, and she had therefore been silent. Now Leonora need never know that she was “second choice.” Her friend’s happy confidences recalled Polly’s strolling thoughts.

“I don’t b’lieve you have any idea how perfectly splendid it makes me feel to think I’m goin’ to have that sweet, beautiful Mrs. Jocelyn for my own mother.” The last word was little more than a whisper. Leonora’s dark eyes were luminous with joy.

“Why, of course I know!” responded Polly. “You feel just as I did that day father told me he was going to marry Miss Lucy,—I mean mother,—and I was to be their little girl. Don’t you remember? I’d been for a visit to Mrs. Jocelyn’s and brought home those presents, and Mary Pender thought I must have had such a good time because I was so full of fun.”

“I guess I couldn’t ever forget!” cried Leonora. “That lovely rose-bud sash you gave me was the prettiest thing I ever had to wear in all my life! And was that really the day you first knew about it?”

Polly nodded.

“Queer!” Leonora went on. “There we both went to the hospital, you hurted so awful bad nobody s’posed you’d get well, and I so lame that even Dr. Dudley thought I’d never walk straight! And now—my! ain’t it queer? We’re adopted by the nicest folks, and I don’t limp a mite! Just see how good I can walk!”

She skipped off gleefully, falling into a slow, regular pace across the room.

“That’s beautiful!” praised Polly. “And it doesn’t hurt you now, does it?”

“Not a bit! Oh, it’s so splendid that Dr. Dudley cured me!—why, there’s David! No, don’t go!” as Polly sprang up. “It isn’t school time yet.”

The girls ran to the door, Leonora clutching her friend’s arm, as if resolved not to let her escape.

“Your mother told me you were here,” David began.

“She didn’t tell you I was goin’ to your school, did she?” laughed Leonora.

“No! Honest?”

“Yes, honest!” they chorused mischievously.

“There’s something up!” David’s head wagged knowingly. “What is it?”

He looked from Leonora to Polly, and back again.

Then the delightful news could not be kept a minute longer, but bubbled forth from Leonora’s lips, until the three were soon in a torrent of merry talk.

David’s interest fully satisfied the girls, which is saying much for it; but the clock ticked steadily on, regardless of adoptions, new clothes, and ponies. Happily there was a chance look across the room, which hurried Polly and David away to school and sent Leonora up to the convalescent ward to make ready for her drive with Mrs. Jocelyn.

CHAPTER III

A WHIFF OF SLANDER

Within a few days the little girl, who on the occasion of the ward’s anniversary had been afraid to speak to her beautiful benefactor, found herself established in the stately old house on Edgewood Avenue, and calling the same charming lady “mother.”

On the morning that Mrs. Jocelyn’s man drove her across the city to the private school which Polly and David attended, she was almost too joyfully excited for comfort. To think that one of her most cherished dreams was actually coming true!

Polly introduced her as, “My friend, Leonora Jocelyn,” which made the little dark face pink with pleasure, and nearly caught away the remnant of her self-possession.

The girls and boys received her with polite attention or gushing cordiality, and she was beginning to calm into something like sober happiness when Ilga Barron appeared.

Ilga was short and plumpy, with pincushion legs, and feet that were trained to dancing. The skirt of her dress was as brief as compatible with fashion, and she swung it with a superior air which abashed the meeker of her schoolmates. She greeted the new pupil with a nod and a stare.

“What’s your father’s business?” was her abrupt inquiry.

“I haven’t any father,” Leonora answered gently.

“Oh! Where do you live?”

“On Edgewood Avenue.”

“Up opposite Edgewood Park?”

“Yes.”

“I thought that Mrs. Jocelyn hadn’t any children,” scowled Ilga.

“She has just adopted me,” Leonora explained shyly.

“Oh!”

That was all, accompanied by a little toss of the head. Then Ilga whirled away, calling on her favorite mate to follow.

Leonora’s face grew distressfully red, and her soft eyes suddenly brimmed.

For an instant Polly stood dazed; but quickly she commanded her scattered wits.

“There’s Lilith Brooks! I want you to know her, she is so sweet! Come, Leonora!” She threw her arm around her friend, and drew her away from the embarrassed group.

“You mustn’t mind Ilga!” she whispered. “Nobody does!”

Yet all that morning the impertinence of Senator Barron’s only daughter occupied more of Polly’s mind than her lessons, and at recess her indignant thoughts sprang into words. She went straight to where Ilga was entertaining two of her chosen intimates with chocolate creams.

“What did you mean by treating Leonora so rudely?” demanded Polly, threatening sparks in her usually gentle eyes. “She is my friend, and I wish to tell you that you mustn’t ever act like that to her again!”

Ilga’s box of sweets stopped on its polite way to the new-comer.

“Huh!” sneered the owner of it, “if you think you are going to order me round, you’re mistaken! I guess I shan’t associate with every tramp that comes along—so there, Polly Dudley!”

“Leonora isn’t any more of a tramp than you are!” Polly burst out hotly.

“No, she isn’t—‘than you are!’” retorted Ilga, with sarcastic emphasis and a disagreeable laugh.

Polly’s eye blazed. She clinched her little fists.

“And you are too contemptible to—talk with!” she cried scornfully, and whirled away.

But Ilga’s instant rejoinder seemed to retard her feet, for she was conscious of walking slowly, missing none of the words that bit into her sensitive heart.

“Oh! I am, am I? Well, you are a regular nobody! You put on airs just because Dr. Dudley adopted you; but he isn’t anybody! He wouldn’t stay at the hospital for that little bit of a salary if he was. He can’t get a place anywhere else—he’s a no—body!”

Ilga knew her victim well enough to realize that any taunt flung at the adored father would rebound upon his daughter with double force, and she winked exultingly to her companions as Polly made no attempt at retort, but went straight to her desk and bent her white, drawn little face over her speller. It would have given her an added delight if she had known that the book was upside down and its print blurred by a mist of tears.

At the close of a session Polly usually waited for David; but this noon she hurried on alone, and he overtook her only after a quick little run.

“This is great, to go off and leave a fellow!” he grumbled pleasantly.

“Oh, excuse me!” she replied. “I forgot.”

“Forgot!” he began laughingly, but stopped. Her gravity did not invite humor.

He wondered what had gone wrong, but was wise enough to ask no questions. After an ineffectual attempt at talk, they fell back into silence, separating at the cottage entrance with sober good-byes.

The kitchen door was unlocked, and Polly walked slowly through the house, longing yet dreading to meet her mother. Down the stairway came the sound of voices. She stopped to listen.

“Oh, dear!—Miss Curtis!” she sighed, and turned towards the little library.

Although since the recovery of Elsie’s birthday ring the nurse had been unusually kind and friendly, Polly could not help remembering that she had once believed her to be the cause of its mysterious disappearance, and just now it seemed impossible to meet her with composure. So she curled up forlornly in her father’s big chair, hastily grabbing a book as an excuse for being there.

The story was one she had never read, and its interest was proved in that time and troubles were soon forgotten. Thus her mother found her, and thanks to the respite from Ilga’s haunting words she was able to respond to the visitor’s greeting with something of her usual happy humor.

Dr. Dudley had been unexpectedly called out of town, so the three dined together most unconventionally. The ladies talked over old hospital days, and Polly, greatly to her relief, was left much to herself. But although she rarely joined in the converse, her thoughts were not allowed to revert to their unpleasant channel, with the result that when she returned to school things had regained a little of their accustomed brightness, and she was ready to smile a greeting to her friends.

But this happier mood vanished with the opening of the door into the school dressing-hall.

A group of girls were removing their wraps, among which was Ilga Barron. Two of them nodded carelessly to Polly, and then went on talking in low tones, with side glances towards the new-comer. Polly hurried off her coat and hat, but before they were on their hook Ilga broke out in a loud whisper, plainly intended to carry across the hall:—

“Dr. Dudley don’t know much anyway! He’s got a sister that’s an idiot—a real idiot! They have to keep her shut up!”

Even Ilga herself, turning to gloat over the effect of her words, was so startled that she led the way quickly upstairs to the school room, leaving Polly standing there alone, her horrified brown eyes staring out of a colorless face.

“What in the world’s the matter?” cried Glen Stewart, appearing in the outer doorway, at the head of a string of girls. “Are you sick?”

“No—yes—oh, I don’t know!” she stammered, catching her breath piteously.

They clustered around her, distressed and helpless.

“Are you faint? I’ll get you a drink!” And Lilith Brooks ran to fetch a glass.

Polly drank the water, grateful for the kindness, although she was aware of neither faintness nor thirst. Presently she went upstairs with her friends, and the long, dragging afternoon session began.

Several times her recitations were halting, once woefully incorrect. The teacher in charge was about to reprove her for inattention; but the wide, sorrowful eyes made an unconscious appeal, and the blunder was suffered to pass unnoticed.

Polly was glad with a dreary kind of gladness when the hour of dismission came, and she hurried away by herself, intent only on a refuge where she should be alone and could think things out. She found the kitchen door locked and the key in its accustomed hiding-place; so she let herself in, knowing that her mother was not at home. Up in her own room she sat down by the low side window, and looked out on the bare landscape of early December.

Aimlessly she let her eyes wander over the desolate garden of the next house, so recently robbed of all its greenery; then the muslin-draped windows opposite came within her vision. The caroling canary, in his little gilded prison, caught a glance, a frolicking squirrel running an endless race in his make-believe home, a lady stitching on a pink gown, and so towards the street. What she saw there made her start as if with pain.

Up the sidewalk strolled a lad, “Foolish Joe” people called him, and he was, as usual, accompanied by a little band of fun-loving, teasing boys. In a moment they were gone; but the shambling central figure with its vacant face stayed with her to accentuate her distress. She leaned her head upon her arm, but she could not shut out the picture.

Ilga’s sneering phrases rang back and forth in her brain, until clear thought was impossible.

“Lucy! Polly! Are you up there?”

She had not heard any one come in, and she started at sound of her father’s voice. Instead of answering she shrank back into her chair, involuntarily delaying the moment of meeting.

Dr. Dudley was mounting the stairs, two steps at a time.

“Well!” His tall figure filled the doorway. “Where is your mother?”

“I—don’t know,” Polly faltered. “She’s gone out—the door was locked—maybe with Miss Curtis. Miss Curtis was here to dinner.”

“Was she!” And then, “I am going down to Linwood, and I thought you folks would like the ride. We shall have to go alone, shan’t we?”

Polly did not look up,—perhaps could not would be nearer the truth; but she rose instantly.

The Doctor took a step forward, and tilted her chin upon his finger.

In spite of her efforts to smile, her lip quivered.

“You and David been having a quarrel?” he asked whimsically.

“Oh, no, we never do!”

“Perhaps you missed a word in spelling?”

She shook her head, with a sober “No.”

“Geography, then?”

“Yes, I made a mistake,” she admitted.

“I wouldn’t worry over that.”

“No, oh, no!”

“Then that isn’t it? How long are you going to keep me guessing?”

She hid her face against his coat. “Don’t ask me, please!” she begged.

“Is it as bad as that?” His tone would usually have sent her off in an amused chuckle; now she was miserably silent, pressing closer into the friendly folds.

“If it is an all-afternoon affair, we may as well sit down,” and, wheeling about, he took the chair she had just left, drawing her to his knee.

“Now let’s look at this together, Thistledown. Two heads ought to be wiser than one, you know. Just give me a chance to show my skill at helping.”

“I—can’t! It would make you feel bad—awfully bad!”

“Something you did at school? I promise my forgiveness.”

“Oh, no! I haven’t done anything—only told Ilga Barron what I thought of her. And I’m glad I did!”

“That the pudgy girl we met the other day?—the one that didn’t have cloth enough for a decent dress?”

In spite of herself, Polly let go a giggle with her assent. “Why, father,” she remonstrated, “she could have her skirts longer if she wanted to! She’s Senator Barron’s daughter!”

A quiver of laughter stirred the Doctor’s face.

“All right, we’ll let the Senator’s daughter wear her frocks as short as she pleases. But what else has she been doing?”

“She said,” began Polly, “that you—oh, I can’t!” She caught her breath in a sob.

“About me, was it? I see! You’ve been carrying a burden intended for me on your small shoulders, when mine are broad enough to bear a whole pack of abuse! Drop the load at once, Thistledown!”

Despite his tender humor, Polly detected in his voice a note of command, and she strove to obey.

“She said—that you—that you—were a nobody!”

“Is that all?” he laughed. “Well, so I am, measured by her standard, for I am neither a man of wealth nor an influential politician. But, Thistledown, don’t you think you are a bit foolish to let that trouble you?”

“There’s something else,” she replied plaintively.

“I am ready.”

“She told some girls—she meant I should hear—that—that your sister is—an idiot!” The sentence ended in a wail.

Dr. Dudley’s arms tightened around the slender little figure, and for a moment he did not speak.

When words came they were in a soft, sad voice.

“I have no sister on earth. She went to Heaven two years ago. I will tell you about it. Until Ruth was six years old she was a bright, beautiful little girl, beloved by everybody. She was eight years younger than I, and my especial pet. Then came the terrible fever, and for days we thought she could not live. Finally she rallied, only for us to discover that we had lost her—her brain was a wreck. The semblance of Ruth stayed with us twelve years longer, until she was eighteen years old; then she went Home. That is undoubtedly the foundation for Ilga’s malicious little story; but, you see, Thistledown, there is no present cause for sorrow, only thankfulness that Ruth’s journey is safely ended. We can remember her now for the dear child she was.”

Polly was crying softly on her father’s shoulder. Presently she asked:—

“May I tell Ilga?”

“I wouldn’t bring up the subject. If it should ever be referred to again, you might let her know the truth, as simply as possible; but sometimes things are better left unexplained.”

Polly was silent, and Dr. Dudley went on.

“I think it will be well for you to keep out of the way of Miss Barron as much as you can. Should there be an opportunity for any little kindness, do it unobtrusively and sweetly, as I know you would; otherwise give her a wide berth—she needs it.”

“I’ll try to,” Polly agreed. “But, father, don’t you really care ’cause she called you that?”

“A nobody?” he smiled. “I should be one if I allowed it to annoy me. My little girl, I wish I could make you see how trivial, how inconsequent such things are. No human being is a ‘nobody’ who is faithful to the best that is in him. It doesn’t make much real difference what people say of us, as long as we keep an honest heart and serve God and our fellow travelers according to our highest knowledge. Life is too brief to spend much thought on taunts or slander. We have too much else to do. I suppose it is scarcely possible for a person that does anything worth doing to get through life without sometimes being talked about unpleasantly and misrepresented. Do you know what Shakespeare says about that? ‘Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.’

“But there comes mother! Run, get your hat and coat, and we’ll have our ride.”

CHAPTER IV

COUSINS

Contrary to the physicians’ fears, Erastus Bean’s condition improved day by day. Polly went often to see him, delighting the little man with her small attentions and her ready sympathy. It was on a Monday morning that he found out the letter had been missing from the rosewood box, and he was at once perturbed over the loss.

“Jane must ’a’ put it some’er’s else, some’er’s else,” he complained, over and over, although Polly begged him not to worry.

“It doesn’t matter so very much if I don’t know who those relations are,” she assured him, “and anyway we may find the letter sometime.”

“Yer don’t s’pose the Doctor said anything to Jane about it?” he queried suddenly, his eyes sharp with anxiety.

“Oh, no! I guess not,” Polly replied easily.

“Wal, yer won’t let him, will yer?” he pleaded. “Cause I’ll sure find it soon’s I git home, an’ Jane, she’s kind o’ cranky, yer know! But she’s got her good streaks, Jane has! She brought me a bowl o’ custard th’ other day—that was proper nice o’ Jane!” His wrinkled face lighted at remembrance of the unexpected kindness.

Polly smiled in response, while she wondered vaguely if Aunt Jane really loved the little man whom she ordered about with the authority of a mother.

“It’s too bad ’bout that letter,” Mr. Bean rambled on. “Yer’d ought to find out who them relations be—an’ ’fore they have time to die. Folks go off so quick now’days, an’ mebbe, if they only knew yer, they’d leave you some o’ their prope’ty so’s you could live like a queen—ther’ ain’t no tellin’.”

“I don’t b’lieve I’d like to live like a queen,” laughed Polly. “But,” she admitted, “I should love some own cousins. I wouldn’t wonder if you’d find the letter when you go home. I feel just as if you would, and—oh, my! I didn’t know it was so near nine o’clock!” as a distant cling-clang made itself noticed. “That’s the last bell! Good-bye!” And Polly whirled off, Mr. Bean gazing the way she went long after her blue plaid had vanished from his sight.

Up the street she ran, fearful of being tardy, and slacking to a walk only when a view of the downtown clock told her that she still had time to spare.

Turning in at the side gate of the house where the school was kept, she saw a lady on the front porch. In the doorway beyond stood Miss Greenleaf, the head teacher, with a girl—a very pretty girl of about her own age. This was all she had time to observe before passing out of sight, on her way to the children’s entrance. But a few words, caught just as she slipped by the house corner, stayed with her.

“I am glad, Mrs. Illingworth, that you think—”

“Illingworth!” Polly repeated softly. “I never knew there were any Illingworths in town. Mamma used to say there weren’t. I wonder if she could be related—oh, I wonder!”

Having reached her seat, she began to watch the door for the new scholar. She tried to attend to the opening exercises, but found her eyes constantly reverting to the spot of fascination, until she grew strangely excited. She really had not long to wait. Soon the girl was ushered quietly in and given a seat five desks away. Polly wished it had been nearer. Then she might have been asked to show the new pupil about some lesson, or to lend her a book. But she was at a convenient point for being observed, and that was a distinct advantage.

The girl was a slight little thing, who carried herself gracefully, without bashfulness. Her soft brown hair, brushed smoothly back from the tanned oval face, fell in long, thick braids over the slim shoulders, and disappeared in crisp ribbon bows of the same color. The dress was a simple affair of light blue wool, which fitted the wearer perfectly and gave her the air of being more richly clad than some of the girls whose frocks were of costlier material.

Polly came near giving too much attention to these interesting details, but finally settled down to study in the contented belief that she was “going to like” the girl with the familiar name. At recess she would speak to her, and “get acquainted.” For two hours this was her fixed hope. Then, when the rest time came, before she could make good her desire, she had the dissatisfaction of seeing the new scholar walk away arm in arm with Ilga Barron, and she turned back to her desk with sober eyes and regret in her heart.

“Isn’t Patricia Illingworth lovely?” whispered a voice.

Polly looked up, to see Betty Thurston.

“Do you know her?” she questioned in surprise.

“Of course not,” smiled Betty. “But I’m going to—if that hateful Ilga Barron doesn’t monopolize her all the tune.”

“But how did you know what her name is?” persisted Polly.

“Oh!” explained Betty, “I was up at Gladys Osborne’s Saturday, spending the day, and Gladys’s Aunt Julia was there there—she boards at The Trowbridge, you know, and she told us all about the Illingworths. They board there, too, Patricia and her mother. They aren’t stuck up a bit, though I guess they’re awfully rich. They came from ’way out West—I forget the name of the place. It’s where Patricia’s father’s got a mine. And she hasn’t ever been to school much, only studied with her mother, and rode horseback, and all that. Aunt Julia said she was coming to our school, and I think she’s lovely; don’t you?”

“Sweet as she can be!” agreed Polly.

“I know why Ilga pounced on her so quick,” confided Betty. “I’ll bet she heard me telling Lilith and some of the other girls that she was rich, and that’s just why. We were down in the dressing-room before school. If it hadn’t been for her we could have got acquainted this morning.”

“Well, there are more days coming,” laughed Polly philosophically. “That’s what mother always tells me, when I want to do a thing right then, and can’t.”

The talk passed to other matters, yet the eyes of both girls followed the new pupil as she and her companion strolled from room to room of the little suite. Here and there they would pause for a few words with some of Ilga’s friends, or to look from a window, and then move on again. The Senator’s daughter was assuredly doing the honors for the entire school.

Polly and Betty laid plans for “the next time,” but Polly kept her secret hope close hidden in her heart, not disclosing it even to David on the way home.