Polly | Page 3

know what about, and she said
you were to go in at once. Why, what is the matter, Poll Parrot?"
"Nothing," said Polly, "only you might have told me about Helen
crying before. Helen never cries unless there's something perfectly
awful going to happen. Stay out in the garden, you two boys--make
yourselves sick with gooseberries, if you like, only don't come near the
house, and don't make the tiniest bit of noise. A new baby--and Helen
crying! But mother--I'll find out what it means from mother!"
Polly had long legs, and they bore her quickly in a swift race or canter
to the house. When she approached the porch the dogs all got up in a
body to meet her; there were seven or eight dogs, and they surrounded
her, impeding her progress.
"Not a bark out of one of you," she said, sternly, "lie down--go to sleep.

If you even give a yelp I'll come out by and by and beat you. Oh, Alice,
what is it? What's the matter?"
A maid servant was standing in the wide, square hall.
"What is it, Alice? What is wrong? There's a new baby--I'm delighted
at that. But why is Helen crying, and--oh!--oh!--what does it mean--you
are crying, too, Alice."
"It's--Miss Polly, I can't tell you," began the girl. She threw her apron
over her head, and sobbed loudly. "We didn't know where you was,
miss--it's, it's--We have been looking for you everywhere, miss. Why,
Miss Polly, you're as white, as white--Don't take on now, miss, dear."
"You needn't say any more," gasped Polly, sinking down into a garden
chair. "I'm not going to faint, or do anything silly. And I'm not going to
cry either. Where's Helen? If there's anything bad she'll tell me. Oh, do
stop making that horrid noise, Alice, you irritate me so dreadfully!"
Alice dashed out of the open door, and Polly heard her sobbing again,
and talking frantically to the dogs. There was no other sound of any
sort. The intense stillness of the house had a half-stunning,
half-calming effect on the startled child. She rose, and walked slowly
upstairs to the first landing.
"Polly," said her sister Helen, "you've come at last. Where were you
hiding?--oh, poor Polly!"
"Where's mother?" said Polly. "I want her--let me go to her--let me go
to her at once, Nell."
"Oh, Polly----"
Helen's sobs came now, loud, deep, and distressful. There was a new
baby--but no mother for Polly any more.
CHAPTER II.

ALL ABOUT THE FAMILY.
Dr. Maybright had eight children, and the sweetest and most attractive
wife of any man in the neighborhood. He had a considerable country
practice, was popular among his patients, and he and his were adored
by the villagers, for the Maybrights had lived in the neighborhood of
the little village of Tyrsley Dale for many generations. Dr. Maybright's
father had ministered to the temporal wants of the fathers and mothers
of these very same villagers; and his father before him had also been in
the profession, and had done his best for the inhabitants of Tyrsley
Dale. It was little wonder, therefore, that the simple folks who lived in
the little antiquated village on the borders of one of our great southern
moors should have thought that to the Maybrights alone of the whole
race of mankind had been given the art of healing.
For three or four generations the Maybright family had lived at Sleepy
Hollow, which was the name of the square gray house, with its large
vegetable garden, its sheltered clump of forest trees, and its cultivated
flower and pleasure grounds. Here, in the old nursery, Polly had first
opened her bright blue-black eyes; in this house Dr. Maybright's eight
children had lived happily, and enjoyed all the sunshine of the happiest
of happy childhoods to the full. They were all high-spirited and fearless;
each child had a certain amount of individuality. Perhaps Polly was the
naughtiest and the most peculiar; but her little spurt of insubordination
speedily came to nothing, for mother, without ever being angry, or ever
saying anything that could hurt Polly's sensitive feelings, had always,
with firm and gentle hand, put an extinguisher on them.
Mother was really, then, the life of the house. She was young to have
such tall slips of daughters, and such little wild pickles of sons; and she
was so pretty and so merry, and in such ecstasies over a picnic, and so
childishly exultant when Helen, or Polly, or Katie, won a prize or did
anything the least bit extraordinary, that she was voted the best
playfellow in the world.
Mother was never idle, and yet she was always at leisure, and so she
managed to obtain the confidences of all the children; she thoroughly
understood each individual character, and