Chapter I

The Cherry-Pudding Story

The June breeze hurried up from the harbor to the big house on the hill, and fluttered playfully past the window vines into the children’s convalescent ward.  It was a common saying at the hospital that the tidal breeze always reached the children’s ward first.  Sometimes the little people were waiting for it, ready with their welcome; but to-day there were none to laugh a greeting.  The room was very quiet.  The occupants of the little white cots had slept unusually long, and the few that had awakened from their afternoon naps were still too drowsy to be astir.  Besides, Polly was not there, and the ward was never the same without Polly.

As the young nurse in charge passed noiselessly between the rows of beds, a small hand pulled at her apron.

“Ain’t it ’most time for Polly to come?”

“Yes, I think she will be back pretty soon now.”  Miss Lucy smiled down into the wistful little face.

“I want Polly to tell me a story,” Elsie went on, with a bit of a whine:  “my hip aches so bad.”

“Does it feel worse to-day?” asked the nurse sympathetically.

“No; I guess not,” answered the little girl, glad of a listener.  “It aches all the time, ‘cept when I’m asleep or Polly’s tellin’ stories.”

“I know,” and Miss Lucy’s face grew grave.  “We shall miss Polly.”

“When’s she goin’ home?” The blue eyes went suddenly anxious.

“Oh, not until next week!” was the cheerful response.  “There’ll be time for plenty of stories before then.”

“A-h-h!” wailed little French Aimee, from the opposite cot.  “Pollee go?”

“Why, yes,” smiled Miss Lucy, with a quick turn.  “Polly is almost well, and well little girls don’t stay at the hospital, you know.  Pretty soon you will go home, too.”

The nurse passed on, but Aimee’s face remained clouded.  Next week—­no Pollee!

Other ears besides Aimee’s had overheard the news about Polly.  Maggie O’Donnell and Otto Kriloff stared at each other in dismay.  Why, Polly had been there long before they came!  It had never occurred to them that Polly could leave.

When Miss Lucy reached Maggie’s bed, the little girl was softly crying.

“I—­don’t—­want—­Polly to go!” she sobbed.

“Dear me!  Dear me!” exclaimed the nurse, “this will never do!” Then, listening, she whispered, “Hark!  Who is that skipping along the hall?”

At the instant, the door opened, and a little girl, her brown eyes shining with pleasure, her cheeks pink as the poppies on the front lawn, and her yellow curls all tossed and tumbled by the wind, whirled into the ward.

“Oh, Polly!” passed, a breath of joy, from lip to lip.

“I’ve had a lovelicious time!” she began.

“We went ’way down to Rockmoor!—­Did you ever ride in an auto, Miss Lucy?”