Polly | Page 5

cries," said Helen, whose own blue eyes were swollen
almost past recognition; "she never cries, she does not even moan. I
think, father, what really upset Polly so was when she heard that
you--you were there. Polly thinks, she always did think that you could
keep death away."
Here poor Helen burst into fresh sobs herself.
"I think," she added, choking as she spoke, "that was what quite broke
Polly down--losing mother, and losing faith in your power at the same
time."
"I am glad you told me this, Helen," said Dr. Maybright, quietly. "This
alters the case. In a measure I can now set Polly's heart at rest. I will see
her presently."
"Presently" did not mean that day, nor the next, nor the next, but one
beautiful summer's evening just when the sun was setting, and just
when its long low western rays were streaming into the lattice-window
of the pretty little bower bedroom where Polly lay on her white bed, Dr.
Maybright opened the door and came in. He was a very tall man, and
he had to stoop as he passed under the low, old-fashioned doorway, and
as he walked across the room to Polly's bedside the rays of the setting
sun fell on his face, and he looked more like a beautiful healing

presence than ever to the child. She was lying on her back, with her
eyes very wide open; her face, which had been bright and round and
rosy, had grown pale and small, and her tearless eyes had a pathetic
expression. She started up when she saw her father come in, gave a
glad little cry, and then, remembering something, hid her face in her
hands with a moan.
Dr. Maybright sat down in the chair which Helen had occupied the
greater part of the day. He did not take any notice of Polly's moan, but
sat quite still, looking out at the beautiful, glowing July sunset.
Wondering at his stillness, Polly presently dropped her hands from her
face, and looked round at him. Her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to
fill.
"If I were you, Polly," said the doctor, in his most matter-of-fact and
professional manner, "I would get up and come down to tea. You are
not ill, you know. Trouble, even great trouble, is not illness. By staying
here in your room you are adding a little to the burden of all the others.
That is not necessary, and it is the last thing your mother would wish."
"Is it?" said Polly. The tears were now brimming over in her eyes, but
she crushed back her emotion. "I didn't want to get up," she said, "or to
do anything right any more. She doesn't know--she doesn't hear--she
doesn't care."
"Hush, Polly--she both knows and cares. She would be much better
pleased if you came down to tea to-night. I want you, and so does
Helen, and so do the other girls and the little boys. See, I will stand by
the window and wait, if you dress yourself very quickly."
"Give me my pocket-handkerchief," said Polly. She dashed it to her
eyes. No more tears flowed, and by the time the doctor reached the
window he heard a bump on the floor; there was a hasty scrambling
into clothes, and in an incredibly short time an untidy, haggard-looking,
but now wide-awake, Polly stood by the doctor's side.
"That is right," he said, giving her one of his quick, rare smiles.

He took no notice of the tossed hair, nor the stained, crumpled, cotton
frock.
"Take my arm, Polly," he said, almost cheerfully. And they went down
together to the old parlor where mother would never again preside over
the tea-tray.
It was more than a week since Mrs. Maybright had died, and the others
were accustomed to Helen's taking her place, but the scene was new to
the poor, sore-hearted child who now come in. Dr. Maybright felt her
faltering steps, and knew what her sudden pause on the threshold
meant.
"Be brave, dear," he whispered. "You will make it easier for me."
After that Polly would have fought with dragons rather than shed a
ghost of a tear. She slipped into a seat by her father, and crumbled her
bread-and-butter, and gulped down some weak tea, taking care to avoid
any one's eyes, and feeling her own cheeks growing redder and redder.
In mother's time Dr. Maybright had seldom spoken. On many occasions
he did not even put in an appearance at the family tea, for mother
herself and the group of girls kept up such a chatter that, as he said, his
voice would not be heard; now, on the contrary, he talked more than
any one, telling the children one or two most interesting stories on