well and do it."

"Polly, I cannot work! And there is no lack of things for me to die
of!" Impatience crept into the sweet voice. "Being in prison is
bad enough even with good health; but to be sick, wretched--the
worst kind of sickness, because nobody understands!--and to grow
old, too, grow old fast--oh, I wish God would let me die!" The
little woman gave a sudden whirl and hid her face in the pillow.

"Don't, Miss Nita!" Polly's voice was distressed. She stroked the
smooth, soft hair. "Don't cry! You're not old! You're not old a
bit! And you're going to be well--father says so!"

"That won't take away the dewlap--oh!" cried Miss Sterling
fiercely, "I don't want a dewlap!"

"Dewlap?" scowled Polly. "What's a dewlap?"

"Polly! You know!" came from down among the feathers.

"I don't!" Polly protested. "Is it some kind of--cancer?"

"Cancer! Polly!" Miss Sterling laughed out.

"Well, I don't know what it is." Polly laughed in sympathy.

"Look here!" The little lady raised herself on her elbow and
lifted her chin. "See that!"

Polly peered at the fair, pink skin.