"Indeed we will," cried Polly, seizing Mamsie's other hand to cuddle it
under her chin, "and I'm going to begin right now. It makes me think of
the little brown house, Mamsie, whenever you smooth my hair. What good
times we used to have there!"

Mrs. Fisher's hand trembled a bit, but the black eyes were as serene as
ever. "You used to work pretty hard, Polly," she said.

"Oh, but it was fun!" said Polly, merrily, "only I didn't like the old
stove when it acted badly. But then came my new stove. Mamsie, wasn't
Papa Fisher splendid? And then he saved my eyes. Just think, Mamsie, I
never can love him half enough. I wish I could do something for him,"
she mourned, just as she did in the old days.

"You do, Polly; you are doing something every day of your life," said
her mother, reassuringly. "Never think that you don't do anything. Why,
it was only this very morning that your father told me that you were
his little helper, and that he depended on you to cheer him up."

"Did he say that?" asked Polly, much gratified, poking up her head to
look at her mother. "Oh, I want to be, but I don't know how to help
him. Papa Fisher always seems to be doing something for other people,
and not to need anybody to do things for him."

"Ah, Polly, when you have lived longer," said Mrs. Fisher, "you will
know that those who are doing things always for other people, are the
very ones who need cheering up, for they never complain. Your father,
in going about as he does, day after day, to the hospitals and
everywhere, where he can learn anything that will make him a better