had to stoop as he passed under the low, old-fashioned doorway, and as
he walked across the room to Polly's bedside the rays of the setting sun
fell on his face, and he looked more like a beautiful healing presence
than ever to the child. She was lying on her back, with her eyes very
wide open; her face, which had been bright and round and rosy, had grown
pale and small, and her tearless eyes had a pathetic expression. She
started up when she saw her father come in, gave a glad little cry, and
then, remembering something, hid her face in her hands with a moan.

Dr. Maybright sat down in the chair which Helen had occupied the greater
part of the day. He did not take any notice of Polly's moan, but sat
quite still, looking out at the beautiful, glowing July sunset.
Wondering at his stillness, Polly presently dropped her hands from her
face, and looked round at him. Her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to
fill.

"If I were you, Polly," said the doctor, in his most matter-of-fact and
professional manner, "I would get up and come down to tea. You are not
ill, you know. Trouble, even great trouble, is not illness. By staying
here in your room you are adding a little to the burden of all the
others. That is not necessary, and it is the last thing your mother
would wish."

"Is it?" said Polly. The tears were now brimming over in her eyes, but
she crushed back her emotion. "I didn't want to get up," she said, "or
to do anything right any more. She doesn't know--she doesn't hear--she
doesn't care."

"Hush, Polly--she both knows and cares. She would be much better
pleased if you came down to tea to-night. I want you, and so does Helen,