It was with an air of great decision that Polly marched up the
attic stairs, two days later. She had purposely delayed her
coming, and the others were anxiously awaiting her. The warm sun
streamed in at the western window, and threw a golden light over
the dainty summer gowns of the three girls who were in a row on
the slippery haircloth seat of an old mahogany sofa, which had an
empty starch-box substituted for its missing leg. Alan sat in
front of them, placidly rocking to and fro, astride the cradle
that he had dragged out into the middle of the floor, to serve as
an easy-chair.

"Hurry up, Polyanthus," he remarked encouragingly. "These girls
are scolding me like everything, and I want you to come and fight
for me."

"Do help us to send him off, Polly," his sister begged. "He
insisted on coming up here with us, even after I told him we
didn't want him."

"Why don't you go out and play ball with the other boys, Alan?"
urged Jean.

"Now, Jean, that's too bad!" said Polly, filled with righteous
indignation. "It's not fair to twit Alan because there are some
things he can't do."

"Let him be," said Florence; "he'll get so tired of it at the end
of ten minutes, that nothing would tempt him to stay here."

"Good for you, Florence; you're a trump," returned Alan. "I