It was not until the next Wednesday that any news came from Mr. Randolph.  Then the letter-carrier brought a long, thin envelope addressed to “Miss Faith Lily,” and the recipient turned so white when Doodles handed it to her that he feared she was going to faint.

“Shall I open it?” he asked.

She bowed her head.  Words were far away.

He drew out the paper and gave it one hurried glance.  Then he swung it over his head with a glad whoop.

“You’re going!  You’re going!  You’re going!” he shouted.

“Doodles!” remonstrated his mother, for Miss Lily was weeping.

In a moment, however, tears had given way to joy, and Doodles must read to her every word of Mr. Randolph’s friendly note as well as the wonderful document that was to admit her to the palatial June Holiday Home.

CHAPTER VII

ROSES—­AND THORNS

Polly was in Miss Sterling’s room when the box was brought up.

“Flowers!” she squealed as soon as the door had shut upon the matron’s stout figure.

“Bosh!” retorted Miss Sterling.  “More likely Cousin Sibyl has sent me some of her children’s stockings to darn.  She does that occasionally.  I suppose she thinks—­”

“0-o-h!” breathed Polly, for the speaker had disclosed a mass of pink—­exquisite roses with long stems and big, cool green leaves.

“Now what do you think?” Polly exulted.

Miss Sterling stood regarding the roses, her face all pink and white, the color fluttering here and there like a shy bird.

“It’s a mistake!” she said at last.  “They can’t be for me.”

“Of course they’re for you!” Polly pointed to the address on the cover.  “Isn’t there any card?” searching gently among the flowers.  “I guess Mr. Randolph forgot to put in his card!” Polly’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Polly Dudley, don’t be silly’” The tone was almost impatient.

“It would be lovely for him to send them anyway!” defended Polly.  “And I almost know he did!” she insisted.

“You don’t know any such thing!” Miss Sterling was taking the roses out.  She brought them to her face and drew in their fragrance.  Then she held them at arm’s length, gazing at them admiringly.

“Aren’t they beautiful!” she said softly.  “I wish I knew whom to thank.”

“It looks like a man’s handwriting,” observed Polly.

“It might be Mrs. Lake,” mused Miss Sterling, quite ignoring Polly’s remark.  “Mrs. Lake has always been nice to me.  Only she would never omit her card.  No, it must be somebody else.”

Polly tried the roses on the small table, on the desk, on the dresser—­where their reflection added to their magnificence.  Finally they were left on the broad window-sill, while the two discussed possible givers.  It was Miss Sterling, however, who suggested names.  Polly clung to her first thought.