and I heard the sound of sobbing. I was thankful to hear it; the tears
had come at last, and they would relieve the poor, weary, over-strained
heart.

Little John was very quiet, so I crept downstairs. I found to my joy
that Polly had eaten most of the toast, and had drunk the tea, and now
she was sitting with her feet on the fender and her head in her hands,
sobbing as if her heart would break. What was it that had brought the
tears? She had not cried when the empty boat had come ashore; she had
shed no tear when the doctor's face had told her that he had no hope for
the child; what was it that had helped her to give way to the tears
which were such a relief to her? It was a very simple thing. She had
picked up from the floor a little toy, a tiny roughly-shaped boat, which
Duncan had made for the child, and which had been little John's greatest
treasure. There had come over her such a rush of memories of the happy
days of the past, gone, as she believed, for ever, of the father whose
fingers had so busily carved the boat for his boy, but who would never
come back to her again, and of the little lad passing away from her
also, and leaving his treasured toy behind him. All these sad but lovely
memories came before her, as she took up the little boat and pressed it
to her lips. They came so strongly and with such power, that the tears
which had refused to come before came with them, and brought, as I felt
sure they would, wonderful relief to her over-strained heart.

'Polly,' I said, 'cheer up, don't lose heart; I believe little John will
recover.'

'Thank you, sir, thank you,' she said; as she dried her eyes. 'I feel
better now, a deal better, I do. You _have_ been good to me, sir.
I'll go up again to him now.'