Poor Polly!  Providence at this time seemed nothing more than a collection of demons which she classified under the word “they,” and which she felt certain were scourging her pitilessly and needlessly.  She could not see any reason or justification in “their” cruelties,—­for that was the only term she could apply to her afflictions.

Mrs. Bird had known sorrow, and she did her best to minister to the troubled and wrong little heart; but it was so torn that it could be healed only by the soft balm of Time.

Perhaps, a long while after such a grief,—­it is always “perhaps” in a great crisis, though the certainty is ours if we will but grasp it,—­perhaps the hidden meaning of the sorrow steals gently into our softened hearts.  We see, as in a vision, a new light by which to work; we rise, cast off the out-grown shell, and build us a more stately mansion, in which to dwell till God makes that home also too small to hold the ever-growing soul!

CHAPTER XIII.

A GARDEN FLOWER, OR A BANIAN-TREE.

In August Mr. John Bird took Polly to the Nobles’ ranch in Santa Barbara, in the hope that the old scenes and old friends might soothe her, and give her strength to take up the burden of life with something of her former sunshiny spirit.

Edgar was a junior now, back at his work, sunburned and strong from his summer’s outing.  He had seen Polly twice after his return to San Francisco; but the first meeting was an utter failure, and the second nearly as trying.  Neither of them could speak of the subject that absorbed their thoughts, nor had either courage enough to begin other topics of conversation.  The mere sight of Edgar was painful to the girl now, it brought to mind so much that was dear, so much that was past and gone.

In the serenity of the ranch-life, the long drives with Margery and Philip, the quiet chats with Mrs. Noble, Polly gained somewhat in strength; but the old “spring,” vitality, and enthusiasm had vanished for the time, and the little circle of friends marveled at this Polly without her nonsense, her ready smiles, her dancing dimples, her extravagances of speech.

Once a week, at least, Dr. George would steal an hour or two, and saddle his horse to take Polly for a gallop over the hills, through the canons, or on the beach.

His half-grave, half-cheery talks on these rides did her much good.  He sympathized and understood and helped, even when he chided, and Polly sometimes forgot her own troubles in wondering whether Dr. George had not suffered and overcome a good many of his own.