NELSON RANDOLPH drew up his car before the chalet as Polly dashed out of the door. A flutter of hands greeted her, and then she and Mrs. Randolph were in each other’s arms. Miss Crilly came next, and Mr. Randolph and Blue and Doodles were not far behind.

“I am so glad to see you,” laughed Polly, “I don’t know what to say. You haven’t come up from Fair Harbor this morning?”

“We have,” they answered.

“Started at five o’clock!” said Miss Crilly.

“And ate our breakfast on the way,” put in Doodles.

“Gee! isn’t this ’way up!” cried Blue, turning to see the wide circle of mountains with which they were surrounded.

“It’s good and cool,” broke out Miss Crilly. “Oo-oo, but it was hot down in some of those places!”

“We always get a breeze,” said Polly. “Come right up on the veranda and take off your things.”

“Do let me look around a minute! How beautiful it is! I don’t wonder you called it the ‘Top of the World.’” Juanita Randolph gazed admiringly on every side. “It is wonderful!” she said softly. “And how well you are looking!”—throwing an arm round Polly’s slim waist.

“The Butterfly Lady,” as she was called by some of the children, greeted the small patients with smiles and handshakes and cheery words. They were very fond of her, and the name given her by Clementina Cunio, on the occasion of her wearing an exquisite dress of black-and-gold, fitted her well this morning as she passed joyously from one to another. It is not surprising that their faces were bright with pleasure as she made her happy way among the wheel-chairs and told her small friends how glad she was to see them again.

Benedicta always appeared to be in her chosen sphere when guests beloved of Polly were at the house. Now, as soon as she knew of the party’s arrival, she promptly began planning what rarely delicious dishes she could concoct.

“Which do you think they’d rather have,” she asked,—“stuffed beefsteak, or brown London chop, or chicken fried in cream?”

Polly advised chicken, and the dinner, with its array of vegetables, salads, breads, and pies, was enjoyed by the visitors with appreciative words and voted by the family to be the cap of Benedicta’s records.

Dr. Abbe and David Collins came in just as the meal was served, and David’s appearance on Overlook Mountain was astonishing to at least one of the guests. Knowing how matters had stood between the two when Polly left home, Mrs. Randolph’s mind was given more to a study of the possible situation than to the chicken over which Benedicta had reddened her face with patient unconcern.

It was not until hours afterwards, when Polly had Nita and Miss Crilly upstairs in her own room, that the girl approached the question which had been in her heart ever since they had come.

“You are going to stay a few days with me, aren’t you?” she asked, quivering with eagerness.

“Oh, no! we must go back to-night,” Mrs. Randolph answered.

Polly shook her head. “You must not! I am going to keep you for a week, at least. No, hear me through! Miss Crilly will—I see by her face.”

“Oh, I should be perfectly delighted!” that little woman beamed; “but—”

“There isn’t any ‘but,’” resumed Polly.

“I guess Mr. Randolph will think he is a big ‘but,’” laughed his wife.

“I’ll manage it with him,” promised her hostess, “unless you really don’t want to stay—and in that case I’ll make you want to.”

They laughed, and the girl went on.

“Give me one good reason for not staying!” she demanded, facing her friend with determination in her eyes.

“Why, we didn’t intend to—” “No good!” broke in Polly. “Give me a better.”

“Well—this should really have come first—I ought not to leave Nelson—”

“Nonsense! He’s perfectly well, isn’t he?”

“Yes, only—”

“No ‘onlys’ allowed. I told you I’d manage him. Is that all?”

Miss Crilly was laughing, and Mrs. Randolph followed.

“You’d be the same old Polly if you lived to be a hundred,” she said. “Truly, dear, I don’t see how I can—”

“It’s all settled,” announced the girl quietly—“you and Miss Crilly are going to stay a week, anyway—maybe longer.”

They began to demur, but Polly laughingly held up a warning finger. And immediately she branched off into plans for the next few days.

“We’ll go to Mirror Lake for one place,” she told them. “I wish I could include Mr. Randolph and the boys in my invitation. I could eat them, as—who is it says that?—but I can’t sleep them.”

Miss Crilly went off in a spasm of laughter, while Polly continued.

“You two can share our beds, Lilith’s and mine; for we haven’t another extra one in the whole establishment. Mrs. Gresham says she is going to put up a new bungalow next summer, so we can have as much company as we want; this season we get along any way. We live out of doors mostly. Pumpelly Falls is another beautiful spot, and the drive is pretty, too. Then, there are some lovely tramps on our own mountains—oh, there’s no end to the places you must see! One week—why, it won’t be any time at all! You’ll have to stay two.”

They were called downstairs and invited to join a party bound for a little lake a mile or so away.

“It is worth going to see,” said Lilith.

“It’s awful lovely there!” piped up Clementina, who hung about hoping for an invitation.

Under cover of the laugh that followed the child’s remark Polly started for the stairs, fearful lest David would claim her for the ramble.

Mrs. Randolph was not far behind, and in the moment they were alone Polly whispered, “May I have your husband for the afternoon? I can’t go with David, and I’m so afraid he’ll ask me.”

“Of course,” returned Nita, “but I don’t understand. Is it as bad as that?”

“I don’t want to be alone with him—you will help me out, won’t you?”

“You poor child! You shan’t be a minute with him if you don’t want to be. I’ll stick to you like a burr!”

“Oh, thank you! And you’ll stay here till he goes?”

“I surely will.”

“You blessed Nita! I feel guilty, when he is our guest; but I don’t see what he came up here for—I didn’t ask him.”

“Not ready yet?” broke in Miss Crilly’s laughing voice. “Please, somebody see if my hat’s on straight.”

“Yes; but you don’t want any hat. Leave it here. Let me fluff up your hair a bit—there, that’s all right. Now we’re ready.”

The afternoon passed in gala-day fashion. The party paired off as it happened, but although the others changed partners more than once, Polly walked with Nelson Randolph from the door of the chalet to the lakeside and back again.

That evening was one forever to be remembered. At the request of Mrs. Randolph, Doodles had brought his violin, and he and Polly and David played and sang from directly after tea until ten o’clock, when Mr. Randolph and the two boys left for Overlook, where they were to spend the night. Never had the little patients known such a musical feast. And Benedicta—she tells it best herself.

“I’ve heard music before; but this wasn’t the regular kind; it was something so amazin’ly over-mastering that I lost myself consummately, and when it got through I didn’t honestly know where I was. That little Doodles—my! I could hear the birds singin’ before sunrise just as plain, crooning an’ twittering as they will when it’s comin’ light, and then breakin’ out fit to burst their little throats, tryin’ to say good-morning to all the world at once! And in that other one I could see the sun dippin’ right down into a bed of gold, and the girl and feller that were in love with each other—why, I almost heard what they were whisperin’!—How does he do it!—that’s what I want to know—how does he do it?—just with those strings and a bow!”

In the duet sung by Polly and David, most innocently asked for by Nelson Randolph, Polly had to summon all her strength to control her face and her voice. She would have declined, but David responded readily enough, and she would not be outdone by him.

“If I cared for David now,” she afterwards told Nita, “I could never have sung it. All that troubled me was that it brought back the last night we sang together, when I loved him—or thought I did—and once or twice the memory almost overpowered me. But if you and Lilith say I didn’t show it, I will try to believe you.”

David Collins, despite his seeming nonchalance at the start, had not been at his best as he went on. Once he took a false note; but whether because he was out of practice or from some other reason those who talked it over together could not decide.

David’s attitude in respect to herself Polly did not understand. She was taking all possible tasks upon her shoulders in order to avoid him. Nita, true to her promise, accompanied her hostess like a shadow, thus effectually hindering David from any effort he might wish to make to see her alone. Last June if he had been thwarted in his attempts as she was thwarting him at present, he would have gone about black of face and gloomy of manner, making it apparent to everybody that he considered himself as being ill-used. Yet now he smiled genially to all and was seemingly at peace with himself and the world. Could it be that up in the great woods he had learned self-control? Or was he actually as contented as he seemed? Perhaps—Polly’s heart quickened with sudden hope—he had fallen in love with somebody else and was here only to obtain his freedom from the bonds under which he might believe himself in honor to be held. The joy was brief. David Collins was not one to feel bound to anybody or anything not agreeable to himself. She sighed. No, that explanation of his present conduct was scarcely practicable. Polly admitted to herself that David was far more attractive in this new rÔle than he had been in the old. No wonder Marietta said that he was changed. With the thought of Marietta she returned to her former supposition, and which she had set aside as not to be entertained. David had always liked Marietta, and the girl herself had plainly enough been bent on winning him. Had he been won over? Polly wished it could be so—yes, ardently wished it—thereby proving to herself beyond any further doubt that her love—if love it had ever been—was love no longer. She could see him wedded to Marietta without the breath of a sigh. If only he were not taking their engagement for granted, as he once did! She shuddered at the possibility.

“Are you sure, Polly, that you are not making a mistake?” Juanita Randolph asked, on the fourth afternoon of her visit.

They had come up to the grove back of the house, where Sardis Merrifield had heard the story of the “Ten Little Girls.” Polly looked up from her crocheting, her eyes questioning.

“What about?”

“About David. Are you positive that you do not care for him?”

The blood sprang into Polly’s face, and mounted to her hair.

“I know,” she replied simply.

“I wondered—that is all,” Mrs. Randolph said, as if in apology.

“Weren’t you sure whether you loved Mr. Randolph or not?”

“Perfectly sure—from the first.” It was the other’s face that pinked this time.

“And you made me believe you didn’t care a rap about him, in fact, hated him!” chided Polly.

Mrs. Randolph laughed softly. “I had no idea that he would ever care for me.”

“I thought he did until we heard that story about Blanche Puddicombe. I am sorry for the man she married.” The elder woman shook her head with a bit of a sigh. “I wonder if she liked Nelson.”

“He didn’t like her,” smiled Polly, “and she had no business to care for him. Probably she didn’t. Oh, how delighted I was that night you told me that you were engaged to him!”

“When I ran a race with Miss Sniffen,” added Mrs. Randolph.

Polly laughed at the remembrance. “If I could have seen it! You had a good time from then on, didn’t you?”

“Nelson would make anybody have a good time,” praised his wife. Her face grew grave. “David is a very attractive young man,” she said.

“Yes, he does seem so now,” agreed Polly. “He wasn’t last June.”

“Perhaps he has left his disagreeable qualities in the Adirondacks.”

“I hope so.” Polly’s eyes went troubled. “Nita,” she accused, “you think I ought to let David come back! You know, there was never any engagement. And he’s been away from me all summer—without a word.”

“There can be no obligation about it—if you are sure of your own heart—” she paused.

“I am sure,” Polly reiterated, with a flutter of red upon her cheeks.

Juanita Randolph watched her as she bent towards her work.

“I am thankful,” the girl resumed, “that I refused to make any promise for life. A girl of thirteen is too young to know her own mind, much less her own heart.”

“You are right,” replied the other. “A girl of that age rarely knows what love is.”

“I didn’t know,” Polly said with emphasis.

After a moment Mrs. Randolph spoke again.

“I wonder if David is waiting for me to go.”

“Probably.”

“Don’t you suppose—don’t you think it might be better to have it over with him? Then it would be off your mind.”

Polly shook her head. “I don’t dare to let it come now. Maybe I am a coward; but I am afraid he would out-argue me.”

“And you think it will be better later?”

Polly’s eyes had a sad, far-away look as she gazed at Dolly’s ducks taking a swim down the brook.

“It seems as if it would be easier—at home. I must wait. David is a good talker when he sets out to win his point—I am afraid.”

“I see,” nodded the other.

“Maybe. But you can’t—quite. I could only say that I am going to be a nurse, and that I don’t love him. Then he would accuse me of almost everything—I know David. When I go back—well, maybe I’ll write him a letter.”

Juanita laughed. “You won’t be a nurse all your life. You cannot convince me of that.” “Yes, I have decided.” She crocheted hard. “I love it, and after I’m through college I shall take a course of training, specializing on children—I have it all planned.”

“I am still an unbeliever,” smiled Mrs. Randolph. Then she pondered the subject in silence, straying far, far from the right path.

For a time matters went on at Sunrise Chalet without much change. Mrs. Randolph began to feel anxious about being away from home, although she appeared to be in the gayest of moods. David was growing more serious of deportment;—what his thoughts were nobody knew. Polly smiled to everybody alike, but lay awake nights wondering if this chain of tangles would ever be straightened out. Benedicta expressed her mind on more than one occasion.

“Isn’t it amazin’ queer,” she said, on the eighth day of Mrs. Randolph’s visit, “how some people can hang on to a place when they haven’t any requisition there at all! What’s the matter with that Collins feller, anyway? The Butterfly Lady was invited; but he wasn’t, was he?”

Polly shook her head.

“Then, why, by the authority of common sense, don’t he say good-bye, and trot?”

It was on the day after these remarks that Polly was near the window of the children’s ward when she heard footsteps on the veranda, and she held her breath. They were David’s footsteps! Why did she leave the veranda door open? She had supposed that David had gone away with Dr. Abbe. He had never ventured into the ward; still—

“You think a good deal of the Butterfly Lady, don’t you?” It was David’s voice.

Grissel and Esther had not been sleepy and had begged to be allowed to remain on the piazza during nap-time. So there they were still, playing with the paper dolls that Mrs. Randolph had brought them.

“I think she’s lovely,” responded Grissel.

“I suppose she will be going home pretty soon,” went on David’s voice.

“No, sir, she isn’t!” answered Grissel eagerly. “She told us she was goin’ to stay a good while.”

Polly smiled.

“Oh!” returned David in a tone that hinted of disappointment.

That was all, save the rustling of paper and the soft whispers of the girls. If only nobody woke up, he need not know that she was there. If she could go upstairs without passing that door!

Presently David spoke again.

“Will you hand that to Miss Dudley when you see her.”

“I’ll carry it now. I guess she’s in her room.”

Polly sat tense—if Esther should come in! It was Esther that had answered. Grissel could not walk. “No,” David was saying, “wait until you see her. She may be resting.”

Polly flushed guiltily. She felt unworthy of such consideration from David.

A chair moved on the piazza, and she heard him go down the steps. As soon as practicable she got up noiselessly and tiptoed across to the staircase. With a breath of relief she shut the door of her own room. Nobody had seen her come up.

When she and Mrs. Randolph and Miss Crilly went for their afternoon walk they left the house by way of the kitchen.

At the tea-table Polly saw David looking keenly at her, and then once again. Both times she turned her eyes quickly; she did not even glance at him the third time, and he did not speak to her directly during the meal. Afterwards she helped Mrs. Randolph and Miss Crilly put the children to bed, and then they joined Mrs. Daybill on the veranda. Lilith and Dr. Abbe and David did not appear until late. Then David looked grave and forbidding. He scarcely spoke.

Polly wondered what had become of the note—if it were a note—that David had wished Esther to give her.

At breakfast David addressed Polly directly.

“I must be going down to Fair Harbor,” he said. “Are you willing I should take your car down the mountain?” “Certainly,” answered Polly, “if you feel that you must go.”

“I have been away from home too long already,” he replied. “Will you go down with me, to bring the car back?” he asked, meeting her eyes squarely.

For an almost imperceptible instant she hesitated. Then she answered, “Why, yes, thank you, I shall be glad to go.”

He smiled. The hour was set. Dr. Abbe and the others expressed regrets; but Polly said nothing further.

Mrs. Randolph and Miss Crilly and Lilith demurred when Polly asked them to accompany David and herself to Overlook.

“He did not invite us,” they said.

“I am inviting you,” returned Polly, and she would take only their acceptance.

David looked crestfallen, so Miss Crilly affirmed, when he saw the bevy of ladies ready to go down to Overlook. But he accepted his fate gracefully, and the ride turned out to be pleasant to at least three of the passengers.

At the Overlook station David caught a brief chance to say a word to Polly.

“Why didn’t you meet me last evening, or at least answer my note?” he demanded quietly.

She looked up in innocent surprise.

“I haven’t received any note from you,” she answered, her face scarlet at once. “Didn’t that little girl who was playing with Grissel on the veranda yesterday afternoon hand you the note I gave her for you?”

“No,” she reiterated. “She gave me nothing.”

He laughed a little. “Forgot it, probably! So much for trusting to a kid’s memory. I waited for you up in the woods till ten o’clock.”

“Too bad!” she faltered.

“H’m,” he returned. “Well, I’ll see you when you are back in Fair Harbor. I might write—shall I?”

“Why, yes, if you like,” she answered.

“Perhaps—I think on the whole I’d rather wait till you come home.”

The train was thundering in; there was no more time. With a grasp of the hand and a grave good-bye, he turned, and Polly saw him disappear in the car.

The next day Mrs. Randolph and Miss Crilly said good-bye, too. The little family on Overlook Mountain was by itself again.