Polly gasped.  Three years ago, when she was first brought to the Home, she had been assigned to a little bed next the one that Jane occupied, and had been more or less under the elder girl’s care.  Jane had been very good to the child, and with her womanly ways and superior knowledge she stood to Polly for both mother and sister.  No wonder, then, that she gasped at Jane’s threat.  What would she do if that threat were carried out, and Jane had nothing more to do with her?  What would life be in the Home without Jane?

Polly did not ask herself these questions in exactly these words, but she felt the desolate possibility that had been suggested to her; and it was so appalling that it quite overpowered her flare of temper, and stopped her sobs and cries as effectually as Jane could have desired.  But Jane herself, busy with her darning, did not notice the expression of Polly’s face, and had no idea how deeply her words had penetrated the child’s mind until hours afterwards, when, as she was preparing to go to bed, Polly’s voice called softly,—­

“Jane, haven’t I been a good girl since?”

Jane started.  “What in the world are you awake for now, Polly Price?” she asked.  “It’s nine o’clock.  You ought to have been asleep long ago.”

“I couldn’t go to sleep, I felt so bad,” answered Polly.

“You felt so bad; where?  Have you got a sore throat?” inquired Jane, remembering that a good many of the children’s illnesses began with sore throat.

“No, ’tisn’t my throat.”

“Where is it, then—­your stomach?”

“No, it’s—­it’s my feelin’s.  I felt bad ’cause—­’cause you said if I didn’t stop cryin’ and be a good girl, you wouldn’ ever have anythin’ to do with me any more.  But I did stop, and I have been a good girl since, haven’t I?”

“Yes, oh, yes, you’ve been good since,” bending down to tuck Polly in.  As she stooped, Polly flung her arms around Jane’s neck, and whispered,—­

“Do you love me just the same, Jane?”

“Yes, I guess so,” replied Jane, smiling.

“I love you better ’n anybody in the world, Jane.”

“And you’d choose me to be your valentine, then, wouldn’t you?” laughed Jane.

“Oh, yes, yes; and if I could only send you one of those po’try picture things, I’d send you the most bewt’f’lest I could find.  Don’t you wish I could, Jane?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Did you ever have a valentine, Jane?”

“No, never.”

“Those girls ’cross the street had ’em, and Martha had one.  Why don’t you and I have ’em, Jane?”

“You ‘n’ I?  Those girls across the street know girls and boys who have fathers and mothers to give them money to buy valentines with.”

“Why don’t we know such girls and boys?”

“‘Cause we don’t.  We’re poor, and live in an Orphans’ Home.  Those girls only know folks that live like themselves.”

“But Martha lives right here, just where we do, and Martha had a valentine.”