and so do the other girls and the little boys. See, I will stand by the
window and wait, if you dress yourself very quickly."

"Give me my pocket-handkerchief," said Polly. She dashed it to her eyes.
No more tears flowed, and by the time the doctor reached the window he
heard a bump on the floor; there was a hasty scrambling into clothes,
and in an incredibly short time an untidy, haggard-looking, but now
wide-awake, Polly stood by the doctor's side.

"That is right," he said, giving her one of his quick, rare smiles.

He took no notice of the tossed hair, nor the stained, crumpled, cotton
frock.

"Take my arm, Polly," he said, almost cheerfully. And they went down
together to the old parlor where mother would never again preside over
the tea-tray.

It was more than a week since Mrs. Maybright had died, and the others
were accustomed to Helen's taking her place, but the scene was new to
the poor, sore-hearted child who now come in. Dr. Maybright felt her
faltering steps, and knew what her sudden pause on the threshold meant.

"Be brave, dear," he whispered. "You will make it easier for me."

After that Polly would have fought with dragons rather than shed a ghost
of a tear. She slipped into a seat by her father, and crumbled her
bread-and-butter, and gulped down some weak tea, taking care to avoid
any one's eyes, and feeling her own cheeks growing redder and redder.