thought her very ill.

Dr. Maybright said to Helen--

"You must be very careful of Polly, she has had a shock, and she may
take some time recovering. I want you to nurse her yourself, Nell, and
to keep the others from the room. For the present, at least, she must be
kept absolutely quiet--the least excitement would be very bad for her."

"Polly never 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