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 natural history. Polly was devoted to natural history, and in spite of herself she suspended her tea-cup in the air while she listened.

“It is almost impossible, I know,” concluded Dr. Maybright as he rose from the table. “But it can be done. Oh, yes, boys, I don’t want either of you to try it, but still it can be done. If the hand is very steady, and poised in a particular way, then the bird can be caught, but you must know how to hold him. Yes—what is the matter, Polly?”

“I did it!” burst from Polly, “I caught two of them—darlings—I was kissing them when—oh, father!”

Polly’s face was crimson. All the others were staring at her.

“I want you, my dear,” said her father, suddenly and tenderly. “Come with me.”

Again he drew her hand protectingly through his arm, and led her out of the room.

“You were a very good, brave child at tea-time,” he said. “But I particularly wish you to cry. Tears are natural, and you will feel much better if you have a good cry. Come upstairs now to Nurse and baby.”

“Oh, no, I can’t—I really can’t see baby!”

“Why not?—She is a dear little child, and when your mother went away she left her to you all, to take care of, and cherish and love. I think she thought specially of you, Polly, for you always have been specially fond of little children. Come to the nursery now with me. I want you to take care of baby for an hour, while Nurse is at her supper.”

Polly did not say another word. The doctor and she went together into the old nursery, and a moment or two afterwards she found herself sitting in Nurse’s little straw armchair, holding a tiny red mite of a baby on her knee. Mother was gone, and this—this was left in her place! Oh, what did God mean? thought the woe-begone, broken-hearted child.

The doctor did not leave the room. He was looking through some books, a pile of old MS. books in one corner by the window, and had apparently forgotten all about Polly and the baby. She held the wee bundle without clasping it to her, or bestowing upon it any endearing or comforting little touch, and as she looked the tears which had frozen round her heart flowed faster and faster, dropping on the baby’s dress, and even splashing on her tiny face.

Baby did not like this treatment, and began to expostulate in a fretful, complaining way. Instantly Polly’s motherly instincts awoke; she wiped her own tears from the baby’s face, and raising it in her arms, pressed its little soft velvet cheek to her own. As she did so, a thrill of warm comfort stole into her heart.

“Polly,” said her father, coming suddenly up to her, “please take good care of baby till Nurse returns. I must go out now, I have some patients to see, but I am going to prescribe a special little supper for you, which Helen is to see you eat before you go to bed. Good-night, dear. Please ask Nurse, too, if you can do anything in the morning to help her with baby. Good-night, good-night, both of you. Why the little creature is quite taking to you, Polly!”

Dr. Maybright was about to leave the room when Polly called him back.

“Father, I must say one thing. I have been in a dreadful, dreadful dream since mother died. The most dreadful part of my dream, the blackest part, was about you.”

“Yes, Polly, yes, dear.”

“You were there, father, and you let her die.”

Dr. Maybright put his arm round the trembling child, and drew her and the baby too close to him.

“Not willingly,” he said, in a voice which Polly had never heard him use before. “Not willingly, my child. It was with anguish I let your mother go away. But Polly, there was another physician there, greater than I.”

“Another?” said Polly.

“Yes, another—and He prescribed Rest, for evermore.”

All her life afterwards Polly remembered these words of her father’s. They calmed her great sorrow, and in many ways left her a different child.

On a certain sunny morning in August, four or five weeks after Mrs. Maybright’s death, six girls stood round Dr. Maybright in his study. They were all dressed in deep mourning, but it was badly made and unbecoming, and one and all looked untidy, and a little run to seed. Their ages were as varied as their faces. Helen, aged sixteen, had a slightly plump figure, a calm, smooth, oval face, and pretty gentle blue eyes. Her hair was fair and wavy; she was the tidiest of the group, and notwithstanding the heavy make of her ugly frock, had a very sweet and womanly expression. Polly, all angles and awkwardness, came next in years; she was tall and very slim. Her face was small, her hair nearly black and very untidy, and her big, dark, restless eyes reflected each emotion of her mind.

Polly was lolling against the mantelpiece, and restlessly changing her position from one leg to another; Katie, aged eleven, was something in Helen’s style; then came the twins, Dolly and Mabel, and then a rather pale child, with a somewhat queer expression, commonly known in the family as “Firefly.” Her real name was Lucy, but no one ever dreamt of calling her by this gentle title. “Firefly” was almost always in some sort of disgrace, and scarcely knew what it was not to live in a state of perpetual mental hot water. It was privately whispered in the family circle that Polly encouraged her in her naughtiness. Whether that was the case or not, these two had a kind of quaint, elfish friendship between them, Firefly in her heart of hearts worshipping Polly, and obeying her slightest nod or wish.

“I have sent for you, girls,” said the Doctor, looking round tenderly at his six motherless daughters, “to say that I have talked over matters with Helen, and for the present at least, I am willing to give her plan a trial. I think she is right when she tells me that if it turns out successful nothing would please your mother more. It entirely depends on yourselves whether it succeeds or fails. If you are agreeable to try it, you can come to me to-morrow at this hour and tell me so. Now good-by, my dears. Helen will explain