Polly was fourteen on that hot July afternoon when she lay on the grass
and skillfully captured the living thrushes, and held them to her
smooth, glowing young cheeks. Her birthday had been over for a whole
fortnight; it had been a day full of delight, love, and happiness, and
mother had said a word or two to the exultant, radiant child at the
close. Something about her putting away some of the childish things, and
taking up the gentler and nobler ways of first young girlhood now. She
thought in an almost undefined way of mother's words as she held the
fluttering thrushes to her lips and kissed their downy breasts. Then had
come the unlooked-for interruption. Polly's life seemed cloudless, and
all of a sudden there appeared a speck in the firmament--a little cloud
which grew rapidly, until the whole heavens were covered with it. Mother
had gone away for ever, and there were now nine children in the old gray
house.




CHAPTER III.

"BE BRAVE, DEAR."


"Wasn't father with her?" Polly had said when she could find her voice
late that evening. "Wasn't father there? I thought father--I always
thought father could keep death away."

She was lying on her pretty white bed when she spoke. She had lain there
now for a couple of days--not crying nor moaning, but very still,
taking no notice of any one. She looked dull and heavy--her sisters