"Why not?--She is a dear little child, and when your mother went away
she left her to you all, to take care of, and cherish and love. I think
she thought specially of you, Polly, for you always have been specially
fond of little children. Come to the nursery now with me. I want you to
take care of baby for an hour, while Nurse is at her supper."

Polly did not say another word. The doctor and she went together into
the old nursery, and a moment or two afterwards she found herself
sitting in Nurse's little straw arm-chair, holding a tiny red mite of a
baby on her knee. Mother was gone, and this--this was left in her
place! Oh, what did God mean? thought the woe-begone, broken-hearted
child.

The doctor did not leave the room. He was looking through some books, a
pile of old MS. books in one corner by the window, and had apparently
forgotten all about Polly and the baby. She held the wee bundle without
clasping it to her, or bestowing upon it any endearing or comforting
little touch, and as she looked the tears which had frozen round her
heart flowed faster and faster, dropping on the baby's dress, and even
splashing on her tiny face.

Baby did not like this treatment, and began to expostulate in a fretful,
complaining way. Instantly Polly's motherly instincts awoke; she wiped
her own tears from the baby's face, and raising it in her arms, pressed
its little soft velvet cheek to her own. As she did so, a thrill of warm
comfort stole into her heart.

"Polly," said her father, coming suddenly up to her, "please take good
care of baby till Nurse returns. I must go out now, I have some patients