David grew strong steadily, but not so fast that Polly was allowed to see him as soon as they both wished. When, at last, she went up for a brief ten minutes, she was brimful of pleasure.

"I want to know about the day you ran after Dr. Dudley for me," began David, almost at once; "the time I was so sick. The Doctor said you had a race, and enjoyed it. I don't see how you could enjoy running your legs off for me; but it was awfully good of you."

"Why," cried Polly, "it was n't I that ran—at least, not much; it was Lone Star."

"Lone Star?" gasped David. "Polly! Do tell me quick!"

"I am telling you," she laughed. "Lone Star, Colonel Gresham's beautiful horse, did the running—the trotting, I mean—why, David! What's the matter?"

The boy's eyes had grown big with excitement, and his cheeks were bright.

"Go on!" he breathed.

"That's about all. I saw I was n't going to make the Doctor hear, and Colonel Gresham was right out there, and I told him how —sick you were, and asked him to catch the Doctor. I never thought of his taking me; but before I knew it I was in the buggy, and we were flying down the street like mad! Oh, I do wish you could have seen Lone Star go!"

"Did he know it was I?" whispered David excitedly.

"Lone Star—know?" and Polly's forehead puckered. "Oh," she brightened, "you mean the Colonel! Why, yes, of course, he did! That is, I told him—no, I did n't tell him much, though, till we were coming home. But what difference does it make?"

"Lots!" murmured David disappointedly. "I hoped he knew—oh, I hoped he knew! Polly!"—and the doll-blue eyes grew mournful —"He's my Uncle David!"

"Colonel Gresham—your uncle?" Now Polly's eyes widened, too.

"My mother's uncle."

"Oh, is n't that splendid!" beamed Polly. "I should think he'd have told me!"

David lay quite still for a moment. When he spoke again it was on an entirely different matter, and soon the ten minutes were up.

"Did you know that David is related to Colonel Gresham?" Polly asked, as she went downstairs with Dr. Dudley.

"No; how?"

Polly told, adding what she had learned of the family history.

The Doctor shook his head sadly.

"I would n't say anything about it to the children," he cautioned her. "Such things are better left untalked of. David is an unusual boy."

"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.

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.

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.