“That’s every single thing I thought of,” Polly assured her. “It seemed funny she didn’t put the paper out first and then come herself; but I s’pose she was flustered and didn’t think. I felt so sorry for her, and the next thing I knew I was racing over there. I didn’t mean to break the rule, truly I didn’t, Miss Cordelia!”

“I can easily believe you, dear, and I am sure Miss Carpenter was not intentionally unjust. She could not have understood. Somebody said she was not feeling well, and that she went home directly after school. She must have forgotten what she told you; her memory is treacherous at times. Please say to your father and mother, dear, that my sister and I are very much grieved over the occurrence, and that we shall endeavor to let nothing of the kind ever happen again. We will have that closet door widened; it has made too much trouble already. Run down to David now; he is waiting for you.” And with a kiss from the stately little lady Polly was dismissed.

David was found on the walk leading from the pupils’ entrance executing a double shuffle, to keep his feet warm, for the air was growing keen.

“Well! you’ve got here at last!” he cried.

“It’s awfully good of you to wait for me,” she crooned, skipping into step.

“Pretty queer if I hadn’t waited! I’d have got you off sooner, only the maid said they had company, and I didn’t want to butt in. So I just ran home and to your house, to tell them how it was—while I was waiting for those folks to go. I guess that maid thought I was in a mighty hurry to see Miss Townsend, for I kept running round to the kitchen to know if the coast was clear.”

“What a lot of trouble I’ve made you!” Polly lamented.

“Trouble nothing!” he scouted. “But whatever did you do it for? That girl!—with all the mean things she’s said! And away she stalked after school, as disdainful as ever!”

“I know,” Polly admitted mournfully. “But I was so sorry for her—it must have been dreadful!”

“Sorry!” David chuckled. “It was too funny!”

Polly laughed, too, reminded of the ridiculous sight. Then she sighed. “I was awfully disappointed,” she went on. “For a minute, when Miss Carpenter told me to stay, I thought I just couldn’t stand it. I didn’t dare look at Patricia, for fear I’d cry.”

“Don’t see what she had to do with it!” growled David.

“Why, I was going home with Patricia right after school. Mrs. Illingworth had invited me to tea.”

“M-m!” responded David

“I want you to know Patricia,” Polly continued; “she’s such a dear girl.”

“Must be!” he retorted sarcastically. “So kind to go off and leave invited company as she did! She never waited a minute!”

“Well, but, David, what good would it have done? They board, you know, and couldn’t wait tea for me.”

“M-m,” remarked David.

“I don’t see why you feel so about Patricia,” Polly began.

“I haven’t any use for a girl broncho-buster!” he broke out.

“David Collins!”

“Well,” he replied, in a half-ashamed tone, “she rides bronchos, doesn’t she? I heard her telling you about being on a broncho that stood right up on his hind feet, and cut up like sixty!”

“Oh, yes, that was a horse she didn’t know about till she got on him! But he couldn’t throw her! She kept her seat! Wasn’t that splendid!”

“Splendid!” he scorned. “It’s just as I said—she’s a—”

“She is not!” Polly burst out indignantly. “It just happened that once. She’s got a lovely little horse that she rides, and he’s as gentle as can be. She isn’t—that! I shouldn’t think you’d say such things about my cousin.” Polly’s voice was tearful.

“I d’n’ know’s cousins are any better ’n other folks,” he growled.

“Oh, David!” she protested. Then her face suddenly lighted. “You’re not afraid I’ll think more of her than I do of you, are you? David, is that it?” as he did not answer. “Why, David Collins,” she went on, the words tumbling out tempestuously, “how foolish you are! I couldn’t! You ought to know! There we were at the hospital together for so long, till it seemed just like one family, and Colonel Gresham your uncle, and all! Why, David, I don’t see what makes you feel so! You never did about Leonora.”

“That’s different,” he mumbled. “You didn’t run off with her, and leave me to tag!”

“Why, I don’t! I want you to come, too! Patricia thinks you’re so nice—she said so.”

“She doesn’t know me.”

“Enough to like you. I thought we could be friends all together.” The tone was plaintive.

“Well,” he conceded.

“You know I like you, David, and always shall, no matter how many other friends I have. It was lovely of you to wait for me to-night and to go and tell Miss Cordelia about it—I never shall forget that!”

They had reached the home cottage, and were passing up the walk.

“I guess I wanted to be a monopolist,” confessed David.

“A what?” cried Polly. David’s long words often puzzled her.

He laughed. “Oh, I wanted you all to myself!” he explained. “I’m a pig anyway!”

“No, you’re not!” declared Polly.

He turned quickly. “Good-night! I’ll be on hand to-morrow morning.”

And Polly knew that David had been won over.

True to his promise, he called early for his old chum, and accompanied her and Patricia to school, showing only the merry, winsome side of his nature, and making Polly proud to own him for a friend.

In the hallway the boys laid hold of him, and carried him off upstairs, where a group of lads, with heads together, whispering and snickering, surrounded one of the desks.

“What are they up to?” queried Patricia, watching them furtively. “Vance Alden is reading something from a piece of paper—hear them laugh!”

“Poetry, probably,” guessed Polly. “He’s the greatest boy for writing poetry. He wrote his composition, one week, all in rhyme.”

At recess the secret was soon made known. A long row of boys, arm in arm, marched across the recitation room, singing this bit of doggerel:—

Ilga and several other girls, who were drawing on the blackboard, had stopped when the boys formed in line, to see what they were going to do, and as the singing went on they stood as if dazed; but at the last, fairly realizing the indignity, Ilga sprang forward, crimson with anger.

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” she cried. “You mean, mean things!”

Instantly the line rounded into a circle, with the girl inside, and the boys, bowing low, began:—

They got no further, for the prisoner, with a dash and a scream, burst her bars, and fled to the next room, followed by a laughing chorus from her tormentors.

Polly was distressed.

“I should think you’d be ashamed,” she declared, “to treat a girl in that way!”

The boys grinned.

“She deserves it!” spoke up Floyd Bascom.

“Yes, look at her last night!” cried Prescott Saunders. “Never said a word, and let you bear all the blame!”

“An’ see the way she’s been actin’ to you all along!” put in Peter Anderson.

“I know,” returned Polly sadly; “but it isn’t fair to sing that to her.”

“Why not? Why do you care?” It was Vance Alden that questioned. The rest were still, awaiting Polly’s answer.

“I’m sorry for her. I know how things hurt.”

But the boys only laughed, and began again the taunting song. They were resolved to have their fun.

“It is kind of mean, isn’t it?” commented Patricia, as she and Polly and Leonora walked back into the schoolroom.

“I wish they wouldn’t,” scowled Polly, glancing across to Ilga’s desk, where she was in excited conversation with three or four girls.

“What does fanfaron mean?” questioned Leonora.

“I don’t know,” answered Polly. “Let’s find out!”

Patricia was first at the dictionary, and turned quickly to the word.

“It means, ‘A bully; a hector; a swaggerer; an empty boaster,’” reading from the page.

Polly looked over.

“Fan”—she began, “why, they haven’t got it right! It isn’t fanfaron at all, the accent is right on the first syllable, and fanfaron doesn’t rhyme a bit! Oh, just you wait!” and she walked quietly away.

Patricia and Leonora followed at a little distance.

Polly went straight to the author of the ditty. There was no distress in her face now. Her eyes were twinkling.

“If I could write as good poetry as you do,” she dimpled, “and I wanted to use uncommon words, I think I’d make sure that the accent was right, and that they rhymed.”

“Wha’ do you mean?” he frowned.

Polly laughed, and ran away.

“There’s only one uncommon word in it,” mused Vance. “I supposed that was—”

“Those girls have been looking in the dictionary,” suggested Amos Rand. “I saw them there a minute ago.”

“I’ll find out!” cried Vance.

Two or three sprang to accompany him.

“You stay here!” he commanded, waving them back.

He returned talking with Polly.

“Have you told Ilga?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she answered.

“Will you promise not to?” he entreated.

She smiled into his anxious face.

“I’ll never hear the last of that blunder if she gets hold of it,” he fretted. “Say, Polly, don’t tell—her or anybody!”

Polly was still silent.

“I thought you didn’t b’lieve in hurting folks,” he pouted.

“I don’t,” she replied. “But you only laughed when I begged you not to sing that any more.”

“And you’re going to pay me off,” he responded gloomily.

“Yes,” Polly smiled, “that’s just exactly what I’m going to do!”

The lad’s face darkened.

“I shall pay you off,” she went on slowly, “by not telling a single person, and I’ll get Patricia and Leonora not to tell either.”

“Polly Dudley, you’re a dandy girl!” His eyes sparkled.

Polly ran off laughing.

“It’s all right!” she reported gleefully to Leonora and Patricia. “Nobody’ll ever hear that song again! I was sure of it when I saw the word in the dictionary, for Vance Alden is so sensitive about a mistake. It is funny! Ilga—why, she’d never know whether it was good rhyme or metre or anything! But Vance didn’t think of that. Now promise, both of you, that you won’t ever tell!”

CHAPTER VI

“You act as if it were funny,” observed Polly.

“It will be if it comes to pass—lovely, too! Oh, don’t I wish it would!”

“Is it a secret?” asked Polly, her curiosity aroused.

“Yes, a great secret! I promised mamma, fair and square, that I wouldn’t tell you; but I want to awfully!”

“I guess we’d better not talk about it, then, because you might let it out.”

“Oh, you darling!” cried Patricia, squeezing Polly’s arm. “I do wish I could tell you right now! Aren’t you aching to know?”

“Why, you make me want to,” laughed Polly; “but if it is your mother’s private business, of course—”

“It isn’t!” broke in Patricia, a-giggle. “It’s about you—oh, I mustn’t!” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Me?” Polly’s eyes grew round with wonder. “But, oh, do stop talking about it! I’m afraid you’ll tell more than your mother will like. Let’s think of something else—repeat the multiplication table, or—anything!”

Patricia laughed. “I guess you wouldn’t care much about the multiplication table, if you knew!”

“Don’t!” begged Polly, and stopped her ears, beginning to tell of a happening in the Latin class. By the time the little cottage was reached they were chatting gayly about school matters.

Mrs. Illingworth and Patricia spent the hour from eight to nine with Polly and her mother; but Dr. Dudley did not return from the hospital, and the mysterious “business” was not mentioned. Polly went to sleep that night wondering what it could be.

The next afternoon when she came from school she found her father and mother in the living-room. There was a note of tenseness in the atmosphere. Polly felt it vaguely as she threw off hat and coat. She went over to her mother with a caress, and Mrs. Dudley drew her down into her lap.

“I had a call from Mrs. Illingworth this afternoon,” began the Doctor.

Polly was instantly eager.

“About the business?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She gazed at him wistfully, her heart in her eyes.

“Your mother will tell you about it,” he said, rising from his chair.

“No, no, Robert!” protested his wife. “Stay and tell her yourself!”

Polly looked from one to the other. Was it something dreadful, this mysterious “business”? They smiled, to be sure, but not at all as if they felt merry.

Dr. Dudley sat down again, and leaned forward, his arms upon his knees.

“Patricia wants you for her sister,” he announced.

“That’s queer!” Polly puckered her forehead. “I don’t see why it isn’t enough for me to be a cousin.”

“But they would like you to come and live with them, and—”

“Well, I shan’t!” she burst out. “The idea! They might know I wouldn’t. Did you s’pose I’d want to?” she queried. “Did you, mother?”

Mrs. Dudley shook her head.

“Let me tell you what Mrs. Illingworth says,” the Doctor went on. “She thinks she can give you greater advantages than I can—of education, society, and travel.”

“Travel!” Polly cried scornfully; “I don’t want to travel anywhere! Why isn’t Miss Townsend’s school as good for me as it is for Patricia and David? And I guess society at The Trowbridge isn’t any better than it is here!”

The Doctor and his wife laughed. Mrs. Dudley’s arms tightened their clasp.

“You haven’t heard all,” the Doctor resumed. “Mrs. Illingworth offers you a thousand dollars, to use exactly as you choose, if you will come.”

The indignant blood rushed to Polly’s fair face.

“Do I look as if I were for sale?” she demanded. “Do I?”

Mrs. Dudley drew her down for a kiss and a “Polly, darling!”

“I haven’t noticed any price tag,” her father responded, twinkling.

“Well,” between a sob and a chuckle, “I think I’ll tie a card round my neck, and print on it, ‘Not for sale.’ As if money’d make up for you and mother!” She hid her face on the snug shoulder. Then she popped up.

“How would the minister like it, if you should go to him and say, ‘Here, I want your wife’ (I heard you tell mother, the other day, that you thought she was beautiful), ‘and I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you’ll let me have her!’ How do you think he’d like that?”

“Not a bit!” laughed the Doctor. “He might knock me down.”

“He ought to!” asserted Polly. “And I don’t like it any better than he would. Mrs. Jocelyn didn’t offer me money, but ’twas just the same. I don’t want to be bought!” She turned suddenly. “You don’t think I ought to go, do you, mother?”

“No, indeed!” The tone was emphatic enough to satisfy Polly. “If you went I think I should have to go, too!”

“When I go, we’ll all go!” declared Polly, “and you can tell Mrs. Illingworth that.” Which sent the Doctor off smiling.

Polly cuddled down contentedly in her mother’s arms.

“I’m sorry for Patricia,” she sighed.

Mrs. Dudley knew Polly, and waited.

“I suppose Mrs. Illingworth is very nice,” she went on, a moment after; “but she isn’t cuddly, like you. I asked Patricia once if she didn’t sit in her mother’s lap, and she said no, she was too big a girl. She is hardly any taller than I am. She didn’t say it a bit as if she thought so herself. I guess her mother doesn’t want her beautiful dresses mussed up—that’s it! I love Patricia, but, oh, I’m glad I am not going to live with them!”

Mrs. Dudley bent her head, and whispered soft words of caress, grateful that to Polly it was given to weigh the things of life in a true balance.

Patricia mourned with many words over Dr. Dudley’s refusal of her mother’s offer; but the friendship of the new cousins was not lessened, and they were often at each other’s homes.

CHAPTER VII

“Oh, that’s too bad!” lamented Patricia. “I had set my heart on having you and him this afternoon. Cousin Lester and Aunt Florence are coming from Nevada. Mamma heard last night. He is your cousin, too, same as I am. You’ll like him; Lester’s all right! He is just David’s age—it is a shame David can’t come! Won’t your mother let you stay home from school? I’m going to.”

“I don’t know,” said Polly. “Wouldn’t after do?”

“Not enough time,” Patricia declared. “I want you and Lester to get well acquainted; he is the nicest boy you ever saw!”

“Except David.”

Patricia laughed. “I guess you won’t except anybody when you’ve seen Lester. Well, make your mother let school go for once!”

“I’ll ask her,” Polly promised.

“Tease!” urged Patricia. “Tease like everything!”

Polly said nothing; but there were twinkles in her brown eyes.

When school was dismissed, the storm was increasing, and Polly rode home beside her cousin in the limousine.

She found the back door unlocked, but the kitchen was empty, and there were seemingly no preparations for dinner. She hastened from room to room, and finally went upstairs.

“What is the matter?” she asked in dismayed tone, for her mother was lying on her bed, white with suffering.

“It came on suddenly—this pain.” She put her hand to her forehead, moaning.

Polly stood quite still, distress in her face. She waited until the spasm had passed, and then said gently, “Can’t I get you something?”

“No. It is that neuralgia over my eye. I have had it before, but never like this. The medicine doesn’t seem to take hold. If it isn’t better soon, I’ll have to try something else.”

“I wish father were home. Shan’t I call Dr. Rodman?”

“Oh, no! It is growing easier. Run down and eat your dinner; I left it in the oven.”

“Have you had yours?”

“All I want.”

Polly lingered, irresolute, her anxious eyes on her mother’s face.

Mrs. Dudley smiled faintly. “Go, dear. There is nothing you can do for me.”

Polly ate a scant meal, and washed the few dishes. Then she thought of Patricia. Softly shutting the door of the living-room, she went to the telephone.

Patricia herself answered.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Polly told her, “but I can’t come.”

“Oh, Polly Dudley!” Patricia broke in, “you said you would!”

“Mother is sick,” Polly explained, “and I mustn’t leave her.”

“Can’t she stay alone? I shouldn’t think she’d mind. You ask her. Oh, you must come! Mamma’ll send for you, and you can stay all night. Your father’ll be home then. Say, run and see if your mother won’t let you come! I’ll hold the wire.”

“I can’t, Patricia. You don’t know how sick mother is. I wouldn’t leave her for anything.”

“Oh, botheree! You’ve just gone and spoiled all my good time!”

Polly heard the receiver slammed on its hook. She sat for a minute wondering if she could say anything to amend matters, but finally turned away. Patricia’s vexation was never lasting.

She listened at the foot of the stairs, and then tiptoed up. Her mother lay as if asleep, and she crept noiselessly into her own room.

Outside the prospect was cheerless. Few people and fewer teams were abroad. Wind and snow were in command, beating the window panes, thrashing the bare trees, whirling round house corners with a shriek and a roar. Polly turned from the cold tumult feeling strangely desolate. She read and wandered about by turns, wondering if ever there were any other afternoon so long. At last a sound from her mother’s room sent her thither. Mrs. Dudley was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Is it worse?” Polly faltered.

A murmured affirmative was the only answer.

“I wish you would go to the medicine closet,” her mother said feebly, when the pain had lessened, “and get a little round bottle at the right-hand end of the second shelf.”

Polly was off like a sprite, barely waiting for directions.

“Yes, this is the one.” Mrs. Dudley drew the cork hesitatingly.

“I thought I could do without it,” she sighed, “but the pain is growing worse—I must have something.”

She bade Polly crush one of the tablets, and two small pills from another bottle, making a powder of the three.

“Your father would have given me this before now if he had been here,” she smiled.

“Why don’t you want to take it?” queried Polly.

“I always put off anodynes as long as possible. But I will not take a large dose.”

“Will it hurt you?” Polly’s face was anxious.

“Oh, no! it will stop the pain. But how is it that you are home from school so early? It is not three o’clock, is it?”

“It is after four. But I didn’t go this afternoon. I wouldn’t leave you all alone; besides, it is snowing hard.”

“Oh, is it snowing! Well, I’m glad you stayed at home. Poor little girl! you are having a dreary time.” She clasped Polly’s hand with gentle pressure.

“I don’t mind, if you could only be well.” Polly’s voice almost broke.

“Don’t worry! I’m easier now. Perhaps I can go to sleep.”

Cautiously she laid her head on the pillow that Polly had made plump and smooth, and was soon so quiet that the small nurse could not be sure whether she were sleeping or not. The rooms were fast growing shadowy, and Polly felt that the lights would be company, so she lit the gas upstairs and down, turning it low in her mother’s room. Then fetching her doll, she took a low rocker, and blue-eyed Phebe and brown-eyed Polly sat down to watch.

There was a stir on the bed. Phebe’s eyes were wide open, but she made no sign when the sick woman rose totteringly to her feet. Polly’s eyes were shut tight, and her breathing soft and slow. She was dreaming of Colonel Gresham and his beautiful Lone Star, when she awoke with a start to find the bed empty and uncertain footsteps in the hall. Leaping to her feet, and dropping Phebe with no ceremony, she bounded to the head of the stairs, where her mother wavered on the top step. Catching her gently, in a voice not quite steady, she asked:—

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I thought I’d go down—and help you wash the dishes!” Mrs. Dudley replied. “Poor child! you’ve had all the work to do.”

“The dishes are all washed,” Polly assured her, “and I am not tired. Hadn’t you better lie down again before the pain comes on?”

The sick woman suffered herself to be led back to the bed, where she sat for a moment in silence.

“I’ll wipe the dishes for you,” she murmured, and began fumbling in her lap. “Where are they?” she asked bewilderedly. “They are not here.”

“I put them up in the china closet,” Polly answered. “Please lie down! I will call you if I need your help.”

At last she was on her pillow, and for a time lay quiet.

Polly lingered near, affright in her heart, Oh, if her father were only there! For a long time she dared not move, but stood and watched the quiet face. Then, suddenly, the lips began to mutter unintelligible things, and Polly’s eyes dilated in terror. That September night, when Colonel Gresham was so near to death, came vividly back to her.

“I’m afraid”—she whispered, but did not go on. With one, long, anxious look she stole softly away and downstairs to the telephone. She wished she had called Dr. Rodman sooner.

Her heart was beating painfully as she took the receiver in her hand. No word came to her ear, nothing save a low sputtering of the wire. She waited, and then gently pressed the hook. Still no answer. Again and again, she made the attempt, until, at last, she realized the truth—the wires were useless.

She sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Finally with determination on her face she ran over to the stairs, and listened. There was no sound. Still not quite satisfied, she crept up to her mother’s room. She found little change, except that the mutterings were fainter, and at times the lips were at rest.

“I must go! I must!” Polly whispered to herself. “She acts just as Colonel Gresham did—oh, dear!”

She dreaded to leave the house, fearing that her mother might rouse—and who knew what she would do! Yet at the hospital was Dr. Rodman and help. It would take but a few minutes to go. Thus reassuring herself, she made ready to battle with the storm. It was not long before she opened the front door, but, unprepared for the fury of the wind, she gave a cry as the knob was swept from her grasp. Still she had no thought of turning back, and snapping the night lock, so that she could return without a key, she succeeded in shutting the door behind her.

Outside was tumult. A procession of blasts came roaring down the street. It was biting cold. The snow stung. The muffled lights shone wanly through the night, and laid bare the desolate scene. Polly breathed hard as she staggered across the piazza. The steps were a drifty slope of white, making descent dangerous; but she plunged on, gained a scant foothold, missed the next, clutched at nothing, and went down, a helpless little heap in the whirling snow.

Starting to scramble up, she dropped back with a cry. Pluckily she tried it again, this time coming to a sitting posture with a gasp of pain. Her ankle had twisted when she fell, and was now throbbing distressfully.

“Oh, I can’t go!” she half sobbed. “Dear, dear mother!”

She looked up and down the street, in hope of help; but none was there. The pain in her foot increased, and she realized that she must act quickly. With a prayer in her heart, she crawled back, little by little, up the steps and over to the door, finally, after much effort, reaching the knob and letting herself in. Once assured that the door was fast, she sank into the hall corner, spent with her struggle.

After what seemed a long while Polly crept upstairs. Her mother was still quiet, as if asleep. There were now no mutterings. Polly shivered in her damp clothing and went over to the radiator. The warmth was grateful, and she dropped to the floor, cuddling beside her iron friend. Soon there were two sleepers in the lonely room.

When she awoke Polly found herself hugging a cold pillow, and she suddenly remembered that Joe was to have come to fill up the heater. Could the fire have gone out? The question brought dismay. If she could only get down cellar!

Her foot and ankle ached unbearably, and she tried to take off her shoe; but it held fast. She pulled and pushed and twisted, gasping with pain; the boot would not stir.

“Colonel Gresham would let Oscar come over and ’tend to the heater, if he only knew,” she muttered sadly—and then a hope popped up. She would ring the dinner bell from a side window—perhaps some of them would hear!

It was a painful journey downstairs, but Polly did not flinch. Again and again the little bell sent its loudest appeal out into the stormy night; but the merciless wind stifled its voice before it could reach a kindly ear. There were snow wreaths in the ringer’s hair, and tears in her eyes, when she shut the window.

“I thought they must hear,” she said sobbingly. Then, like a careful little housewife, she shook the snow from her dress, and brushed up the slush from the floor.

“I guess I’ll go,” she whispered. “Mother will freeze if I don’t. P’rhaps I can—I’ve got to anyway!” She caught her breath in pain.

Hobbling over to the kitchen shelf where the runabout lamp was kept, she lighted it, and, supplying herself with matches and a small shovel, she started for the cellar. In baby-fashion she went down, sitting on the top stair and slipping from step to step. The light threw shadows all about, grotesque and startling; but the little figure kept steadily on.

The fire was very low. Polly gazed anxiously at the dull red coals. The damper in the lower door had a bad habit of opening when it was jarred. It was open now.

“Father was in a hurry this morning when he shut this door,” she explained to herself, “and I guess he didn’t stop to look. That’s why it’s burned out.”

Slowly and painfully she fetched wood and threw it in the heater, opening the draughts wide, and watching to see if it caught. Soon it began to crackle and blaze cheerily, and, despite her loneliness and her suffering, hope leaped in her heart.

“It will be nice and warm when mother wakes up—oh, I’m so glad I came down!”

Yet it was dreary waiting for the moment when it seemed best to put on the coal, and then she lingered still longer before she dared shut off the draught. But at last her labor was complete. The pipes were growing warm, and the heater could safely be left to care for itself.

Going upstairs was difficult and distressing; but the two flights were finally accomplished, and Polly was free to rest. She lay down quietly beside her mother, though not to sleep. Pain that made her almost cry out for relief kept her awake hour after hour. Mrs. Dudley lay very still. But for her soft breathing the little watcher at her side would have thought her dead. Many times Polly lifted herself upon her elbow, leaned over to listen, and dropped back again satisfied, but with a stifled groan. Every movement now was torture.

The night seemed to have no end. Polly felt as if she had lain there a hundred hours, and yet no sign of day. She wondered if God had forgotten to wake up the world—and then she slept.

It was so that Dr. Dudley found them at eight o’clock in the morning. When Polly came to herself her father and mother were talking of the great storm, the delay of his train, and of her sudden illness. But Polly’s story of the night sent the Doctor in haste to the aid of the injured ankle.

One glance at the swollen foot, and he whipped a pair of scissors from his pocket, inserting a blade underneath the leather.

“Oh, father,” cried Polly in alarm, “these are my second-best boots!”

But the scissors were doing their merciful though destructive work, and the little sufferer closed her eyes with a sob of relief.

For several days Polly’s seat at school was vacant; but Patricia did not allow her to get lonely.

“If you had come to see Lester, as I wanted you to,” she insisted, “you wouldn’t have sprained your ankle and had to stay home. Honestly, don’t you wish you had?”

Polly glanced across to her mother with a mysterious smile.

“I am sorry,” she answered, “not to have seen your cousin—”

“And yours!” put in Patricia.

“Yes, ‘and mine,’” Polly laughed. “But father says that blizzard lessons are sometimes better than Latin and geography; so I’m glad I didn’t miss them.”

Patricia looked puzzled.

CHAPTER VIII

“But I don’t know what to do,” Polly sighed. “There’s Gladys Osborne, I ought to invite her. She’s Betty’s intimate friend, and I’m afraid she’ll feel hurt to be skipped. And Ilga!” She drew another sigh.

“Ilga Barron?”

Polly nodded, her forehead wrinkled over the problem. “She has been good to me lately, and she’ll expect an invitation. Still Mabel and Mary don’t have half the fun that Ilga has, and I want them. Oh, dear, having parties is hard work!”

Mrs. Dudley smiled sympathetically, but offered no direct assistance.

“Suppose we leave the girls, and take up the boys. Then we can come back, and things may look clearer.”

“All right.” Polly welcomed a respite from the struggle between loyalty to her old hospital friends and duty to her new acquaintances.

The second list was soon complete, with former patients of the convalescent ward outnumbering the others.

“I want Otto Kriloff and Moses Cohn and those boys to have a good time for once,” Polly unnecessarily explained, and then turned to the matter which had been dropped.

“I think I’ll have Aimée and Gladys and Ilga,” she at length decided. And so the names went down.

“I will write the invitations this evening,” promised Mrs. Dudley; but in less than an hour came Mrs. Jocelyn with a proposal which precluded all previous arrangements and more pleasantly solved Polly’s difficult problem.

“Leonora and I are in a quandary,” began the little lady who was used to having her own way, “and we hope you will help us out. With Polly’s birthday coming on the eighteenth and Leonora’s on the twentieth, and we planning for separate parties, it is strange I didn’t think of it sooner. Probably it wouldn’t have occurred to me now, only that the invitation list has been giving us no end of bother.”

Mrs. Dudley and Polly smiled appreciatively to each other.

“We reached the end of it,” Mrs. Jocelyn continued, “long before Leonora was through choosing, and she was distressed at thought of leaving out so many. It is all nonsense, this restricting the number of guests to the years; but if it must be so I think we had better combine. Then we can double the list, and nobody will have to be invited twice. Polly and Leonora ought to be satisfied with forty-four friends—no, forty-two besides themselves,” she amended, with a twinkle in her gray eyes.

The girls eagerly awaited Mrs. Dudley’s reply.

“That would be very pleasant,” she began; “but—”

“There isn’t a single but to it,” laughed the little lady comfortably. “We will have the party at my house, two parties in one, on the nineteenth.”

“Oh! that will be a between birthday party, won’t it?” piped Polly delightedly.

“We will call it just that,” agreed Mrs. Jocelyn.

Plans were making progress when the Doctor came in, and Polly watched his face anxiously as he listened. She knew the signs.

“I don’t quite like this arrangement,” he objected frankly. “We have intended to make Polly’s party a very simple little affair, without fuss or ceremony. You, of course, will wish things different.”

“Now, see here, Dr. Robert Dudley,” broke in Mrs. Jocelyn, laughingly, “I’m not going to allow any such insinuations. It shall be bread and butter and cookies for tea, if you wish; but you are not going to spoil our good time. Just look at those children! They are worrying their hearts out for fear you won’t let them play hostess together.”

At that, the disturbed faces broadened into smiles, and presently the Doctor asked Polly if she had shown Leonora the new paper dolls that Burton Leonard’s mother had sent her. Which delicate hint told her that the elder people preferred to discuss the matter alone.

It was finally settled according to Mrs. Jocelyn’s mind, as Leonora had felt sure it would be.

“Mother always makes things go her way,” she declared, “and it is a beautiful way, too!”

When it came to deciding on the guests, all was harmonious, even when Polly submitted the name of Ilga Barron, to whom Leonora had felt a strong dislike since her first day at school.

“But you can have her if you want her,” she conceded. “I only hope she won’t spoil the party.”

Polly had the same secret hope, mingled with not a little fear; but she kept silent regarding it, only saying:—

“She has been pleasant lately, and I don’t want to snub her just as she’s growing good.”

On the afternoon of Polly’s birthday, the school furnace needed immediate repair, and the session came to an early close. It had been arranged for Polly to ride home with Leonora; but as the carriage was not there they took a trolley car, Leonora not being yet quite strong enough for so long a walk.

Polly was the first to spy it, the fairy-like automobile, all white and gold, in front of Mrs. Jocelyn’s house. The girls, excited with wonder, walked slowly past the beautiful little car.

“It must belong to somebody’s fairy godmother,” laughed Leonora.

“Or to Titania,” added Polly. “It is pretty enough to be hers.”

“Whose do you really s’pose it is?” queried Leonora, loitering at the side entrance for another look.

But Polly had not even a suggestion beyond the fairy queen.

“Let’s hurry up and find out!” she cried. And they raced round to the back door.

Barbara, one of the maids, showed plain dismay when she saw them.

“Stay here, here in this room!” she commanded excitedly.

“I want to see mother,” objected Leonora.

“No, no!” replied Barbara, with unheard-of severity. “She got vis’tors.”

“Did they come in that lovely car? Oh, do tell us that!” Leonora wheedled.

Barbara hesitated, looking from one to the other.

“Please!” coaxed Polly.

“Yes,” she finally admitted, “they come in it. But I not tell more.” She shut her lips tightly.

Tilly, the cook, slipped outside, and after a while returned with the word that the girls could go where they chose. They were quick to use the permission; but, as Polly surmised, the little car was gone.

Mrs. Jocelyn only smiled unsatisfactory answers to their eager questions, and they wondered much what it all could mean.

Soon after tea Polly was sent home in the coach, with a box of eleven long-stemmed superb pink roses, a birthday present from Leonora. She ran into the living-room to show them to her father and mother, but stopped just inside the threshold, staring at the corner where a low bookcase had stood. There, shining with newness, she saw a handsome upright piano.

“Why, father,” she cried, “what made you do it? You said you couldn’t afford one just yet, and I could have waited as well as not!”

Dr. Dudley smiled down into her eager face.

“I didn’t,” he answered. “We were as much surprised as you are. Read that!” pointing to a card tilted against the music rack.

She snatched the bit of white.