The days dragged slowly by; hot, sultry, lonely days. There was nothing much for a little girl to do in the great empty house, and Polly wandered about rather disconsolately at first, missing good Hannah and Priscilla at every turn and learning anew how dear they had become to her. There was not much fun in playing with her doll when there was no one to join in the game. She visited Oh-my in his stable and found the greatest consolation in telling him her secrets and feeling that he understood and sympathized with her.

“You see, pony,” she explained, “I haven’t got anybody to talk to now but you, and it makes me feel lonesome. Theresa has the charge of me, but she stays down-stairs mostly and doesn’t pay very much attention. Besides, James told me she doesn’t like little girls, and I guess it’s true, for sometimes her voice isn’t very pleasant when she says things to me and I’d rather not bother her unless I have to, because it makes her nervous.”

And Oh-my put his head down and nosed Polly’s hand in the friendliest, manner possible, as if to say: “I understand perfectly, my dear. I’ve gone through the same thing myself, so I know precisely how you feel.”

But one thunder-stormy day Polly happened to stroll into the library down-stairs, because the nursery seemed so far off when the lightning was flashing and the great, crashing peals made one’s breath clutch at one’s throat, and as it happened, that was the last of her loneliness, for how could one possibly feel solitary with such a multitude of delightful friends as she found in those well-filled book-shelves? She forgot the storm, forgot the heat, forgot everything, in fact, but the new world she had found and that proved so full of endless delights and surprises.

She did not venture to take any of the volumes very far from their shelves, but she discovered it was thoroughly comfortable, as well as convenient, to cuddle back of the library curtains on the wide window-sill, and, in this hidden nook with her new-found treasures to keep her company, she was entirely happy and remained lost to the world for hours at a time. So long as she appeared promptly at meal-time Theresa did not care where she was, so Polly got through the days much bettor than could have been expected and before she realized it, it was drawing near the time when the travelers should return.

Meanwhile, Priscilla was causing her mother and Hannah no end of disappointment and worry. The railroad journeys tired and bored her since there was no lively Polly across the aisle to invent new plays for her or take the lead in the old ones. She sat upon the beach at the seashore and could not be induced to stir from Hannah’s side. Once or twice, some sociable child, anxious to make friends, would venture up and ask if she did not want to come and play, but Priscilla always turned away her head shyly and refused to be neighborly.

“Why don’t you go and play with that nice little girl, Priscilla?” Hannah urged. “She’s a real little lady. I’ve watched her ever since we came on the sands and I’ve never seen her cross or selfish. Go along, dear! You’ll have lots of fun.”

But Priscilla shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she murmured wistfully. “She doesn’t play the right way. Not—not—the way Polly does. Polly plays the best way. If Polly were here I’d play.”

The fresh sea-air brought the color back to her cheeks and she grew thoroughly strong and well again, but she was languid and restless and nothing appeared to please her.

After three weeks of this her mother grew fairly discouraged.

“We have tried the seaside and we have tried the mountains,” she declared mournfully to Hannah, after a particularly dreary day in which everything had gone wrong with Priscilla. “She doesn’t seem contented anywhere.”

“She’s not sick, that’s certain,” Hannah assured her consolingly. “The doctors all say there’s nothing the matter with her. Dr. Crosby told me he thought it was just a miracle the way she got over the shock of that fall. He said it wouldn’t have been possible if she were as she used to be.”

“Yes, I know she is not sick,” went on the anxious mother, “but her spirits do not improve. She was so happy and merry this summer, it was a pleasure to see her. Her aunts and uncles all remarked what a different child she was, but now—ever since her fall—she has been going back to her old listless, moody ways again. I am utterly distressed about her.”

“Oh, now, I wouldn’t feel like that,” ventured Hannah, who in her heart felt entirely the same, but wouldn’t have admitted it for the world.

Just then Priscilla herself wandered into the room. The corners of her mouth were drooping and her eyes looked quite ready for tears.

Her mother held out her arms and the little girl went to her silently.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Duer, kissing the mournful lips and stroking back the glossy hair with a loving hand, “I wonder what pleasant plan we can make for to-morrow. What would you like to do, little daughter?”

For answer Priscilla suddenly buried her face in her mother’s neck and began to cry.

“Why, what is it, darling?”

“I don’t know,” came back in a broken whisper.

“Don’t you like it here, dear?”

“N-no.”

“Would you like to go away?”

“Y-yes, please.”

“Very well, dear. We can leave to-morrow. And we’ll go anywhere you choose.”

Priscilla raised her head and her eyes were shining with pleasure as well as tears.

“Really?—Truly?” she cried eagerly.

“Why, yes, pet,” her mother assured her in surprise. “Certainly we can go to-morrow and anywhere you choose.—Back to the mountains if you like.”

Priscilla’s face fell and all the light went out of it. Her lip began to quiver. Her mother and Hannah exchanged puzzled glances over her head.

“Don’t you want to go back to the mountains?” Mrs. Duer asked gently.

“N-no.”

“Well, we have plenty of time, dear. We can go where you like. We need not hurry home.”

But somehow this comforting assurance seemed only to start Priscilla’s tears afresh.

“I don’t want plenty of time,” she wailed dolefully.

A sudden idea popped into Hannah’s head. She gave Mrs. Duer a quick glance and then said quietly: “I shouldn’t want to hurry you on any account, madam, but perhaps if we were to go home for a day or two Priscilla might make up her mind better where she’d like to be. If we didn’t stay out the rest of our time here, for instance, we could go right home to-morrow.”

But Priscilla had started up, her eyes aglow. Hannah pretended not to notice her and continued unconcernedly: “We could telegraph to Theresa to-night that we were coming to-morrow and, if we started bright and early we could be home by evening, sure.”

Priscilla clapped her hands. “And s’posing Lawrence and Richard would meet us at the station!” she cried, half-laughing, half-crying, her voice quivering with excitement: “and s’posing Oh-my was there too—and—and s’posing—s’posing Polly was driving him—and—and——”

“I shouldn’t wonder one mite if I were to ask the telegraph operator down in the office to send that telegram to Theresa,” declared Hannah, “that he’d send it for me in a minute.”

Priscilla slipped from her mother’s arms.

“Oh, Hannah,” she exclaimed, “would you ask him, would you?”

Hannah laughed: “Well, dearie, I rather think I will,” she said.

And that was the end of Priscilla’s low spirits. For the rest of the afternoon she could hardly contain herself, and had to be warned of the danger of postponing their journey if she did not sleep, before she could be induced to compose herself for bed that night.

It was plain enough, the child had been homesick.

Early that same evening Polly, from her perch on the library window seat, saw a bicycle shoot swiftly around the sweep of the driveway. She was so absorbed in her book that she hardly raised her eyes to look at it and was only dimly aware that the rider wore a uniform of blue, with the cap of a telegraph-messenger upon his head. But Theresa was not, by any means, so blind to what was going on about her. She spied the boy at once and ran down to the kitchen area-way at the back of the house to receive him.

“Oh, botheration!” she ejaculated as she read the message. “If this ain’t the most provoking world! Here I was counting on two more weeks’ vacation at the very least and making plans and everything and now comes a telegram to say the whole thing is up to-morrow.”

“What’s that?” asked the cook, full of curiosity at once.

“Why, the folks are coming-back to-morrow, that’s what!” Theresa snapped. “And a horrid shame it is too. Upsetting a body’s arrangements and disappointing ’em of two weeks’ holiday at least. James is the lucky one! can go off where he chooses and take it easy.”

“Oh, my!” exclaimed the cook good-naturedly, “is that all? Goodness! I thought you’d lost your best friend, you acted so cut up. Why under the sun shouldn’t the folks come home if they want to? It’s their house. They ain’t running it altogether for our convenience, and as to disappointing us of two extra weeks’ holiday as you call it—why, that’s just nonsense, Theresa. We had no right to expect, so we oughtn’t to be disappointed.”

“Oh, you’re too good to be true!” Theresa retorted angrily, as she flounced out of the kitchen.

The cook looked after her with a broad smile of amusement on her fat, good-natured face. “Well, well,” she murmured, comfortably, “Theresa is a caution, and no mistake. Such a temper as she has got! And the idea of her being in a fury because the folks is coming home! Plans! Now, I wonder what the great plans are that she’s made and that their coming’ll interfere with.”

But it was not Theresa’s way to confide her plans to others and least of all to one who would be pretty certain to disapprove of them. She knew very well that the good-hearted cook would never stand by and see her carry out a cruel plot of revenge against a helpless child if she were aware of it. And that was what, to her shame, Theresa had meant to do. She had by no means forgotten her grudge against Polly and had intended to take this opportunity to prove it. But now the elaborate scheme that it had taken her weeks to contrive was upset, for, with James and Hannah about again the little girl would be well protected and she would have no chance to wreak her spite upon her. She bit her lips savagely as she went up-stairs with the unwelcome telegram crushed tightly in her palm.

Polly, happening to come out of the library just at the moment that Theresa was crossing the hall, noticed the maid’s white lips quiver and, thinking she was sick or unhappy, broke out at once with an impulsive: “Oh, Theresa, what’s the matter? Has anything happened?”

Theresa looked down at her for an instant with an ugly gleam in her eyes. “Only a telegram,” she muttered curtly.

Polly’s cheeks whitened. “A telegram!” she echoed. “They send telegrams when people are sick or hurt or dead, don’t they?”

Theresa nodded grimly.

“Is any one you know of sick?” asked poor Polly, her quick sympathy aroused at once and her thoughts traveling instantly to sister and reminding her how badly she would feel if a telegram had come saying sister was worse.

Again Theresa nodded.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Polly heartily. “I’m ever and ever so sorry, Theresa. I hope it isn’t your sister. I know how I’d feel if it was my sister.”

But like a flash of lightning a thought had shot across Theresa’s brain and before she fairly knew she was speaking she heard herself say: “It is your sister!”

All in an instant she saw her way to get Polly out of the house before the family returned. One plan was as good as another; if her first had failed, this would be pretty sure to succeed.

“Yes, child,” she went on, “it’s very sad, but—now don’t get excited,—your sister is very sick! Very, very sick indeed.”

“Does—does the telegram say that?” stammered Polly hoarsely.

“The telegram says,” declared Theresa, unfolding the paper and pretending to read it: “‘Sister worse. Wants Polly. Take first train to-morrow morning.’”

Polly clung to the stair-rail for support. She did not ask to see the telegram. It never entered her innocent mind that Theresa would stoop to deceive her. She did not doubt the woman for a moment, there was no room in her overburdened little heart for anything but grief over sister.

“Now, Polly,” said Theresa quietly, “you mustn’t give way. You must have grit and content yourself for to-night. And to-morrow morning I’ll get you off by the first train. There won’t be the slightest trouble about it. I’ll pack your things in a nice bundle and you can carry it with you.”

“But—but——” broke out Polly in despair, “Mrs. Duer told me not to go outside the gates—and I promised.”

“Unless I went with you,” corrected Theresa. “She told me all about it and she made you give your word that you’d mind what I said and do everything I told you to do.”

“But—but——” cried Polly, still only half-convinced, “I don’t know the way. I haven’t any money.”

“Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed the maid. “That’s nothing. I’ll be glad to give you your carfare and you haven’t to change cars once all the way. All you have to do when you’re in the train is to sit still until you get to the city. Then you walk through the station and up Madison Avenue for a while and there you are, right at the hospital door. You can’t possibly lose your way. It’s as plain as a pipe-stem. And I’ll wake you early to-morrow morning, before the rest are up, and you can get away on that first train.”

Polly’s head was whirling. She passively let Theresa lead her up-stairs and, in a sort of dream, saw her make ready a neat bundle containing the very best of the dainty garments Miss Cissy and Mrs. Duer had given her. She could not touch her supper, though Theresa had taken unusual pains to make it an especially tempting one and kindly urged her, in the friendliest manner possible, to eat. And later, although it grew long past her bedtime, her tearless eyes refused to close. She lay awake staring into the darkness, hearing the big clock tick and the miserable little screech-owl moan and thought of sister and what she would do if—— But here she always had to stop and go back again to the beginning, for she could not get her thoughts to carry her beyond the point of sister’s leaving her in the world alone.

She must have fallen into a doze at last, for it was with a start of surprise that she heard Theresa’s voice whispering in her ear: “Wake up, Polly! Hurry! It’s time you were up and dressing! I’ve got a glass of milk for you and some biscuits, and if you’re quick you won’t have any trouble getting to the station in time for the train,” and knew that it was morning and that she was back in the world again with that awful gloom of sister’s being worse hanging over her and shutting out the sunshine.

Theresa was kindness itself. She helped Polly to dress, encouraged her to eat her breakfast and quite laughed with good-natured generosity at Polly’s reluctance to accept the money for her journey.

“You see, Theresa, I could have paid for it myself,” the little girl explained, “but I took the money out of my bank to give to Miss Cissy when I lost the bag the night of the Fair.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” said Theresa. “Did Miss Cissy know?”

“Yes, I did,” repeated Polly. “No, I started to tell her, but she went away. I took all there was in it. We had to break the bank to get it out. The pieces are in my table-drawer. I couldn’t bear to throw them away and, oh, dear!—now I guess I’d better go, please. I can’t eat any more, really! And I’ve drunk all the milk——”

“That’s a good girl,” the maid said kindly. “Now, step soft as ever you can so as not to wake anybody. I’ll go down to the station, or almost down to it, and see you in the train myself.”

“But it’s such a long walk,” protested poor Polly. “You’ll get all tired out.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ll carry your bundle and if we hurry I can be back here in no time—before Bridget and the rest are up, I’m sure.”

So, creeping softly and noiselessly down the long, silent halls and staircases the two stole out of the house, through the grounds and out into the sunny stretch of road beyond. It was a long, tiresome tramp, but Polly was too excited to notice it. She wanted to hurry, to run, to do anything that would help her to get to sister more speedily. Theresa carried her bundle, which was rather heavy, to within a short distance of the station.

“Now, I can’t go any further with you,” she said as they reached the last turn in the road, “for it’s getting late and I ought to be home if I don’t want the girls to think I—I’m neglecting my work. But you’re all right now, you can see the depot there in front of you. Just you go straight into the waiting-room and up to the little window in the middle and ask for a ticket to the city, and if the ticket-seller says ‘return?’ you say ‘No!’ for I couldn’t very well spare you the money for both ways and have only given you enough to carry you down. You won’t need any change after you get there, for the hospital isn’t very far, and when you get to the hospital your sister will see to you or some one else will. There’ll be no trouble about that. Well, run along now and don’t, for the life of you, tell anybody what’s the matter or why you’re going away or anything. It isn’t safe for little girls to speak to strangers.”

Polly promised and, with rather a heavy pat upon the shoulder that was meant to seem friendly, Theresa shoved her forward on her way.

After she had gone the maid stood and watched her with narrow, eager eyes. She waited there, in fact hidden from sight behind the roadside trees and bushes, until she heard the heavy train thunder up and off again. Then she turned, sped quickly back along the path she and Polly had come, and reached the house and the shelter of her own room before any of the other servants were astir.