“I hope so,” returned David politely.  “My mother read me a story the evening before I was hurt.  It was about a king and queen that lived beautiful stories, and I was going to live such a brave, splendid one every day—­and then the horse knocked me down!  Such a lot of miserable stories as I’ve lived since I came here, not much like the ones I’d planned!  But to-day’s will be better, because you’ll be in it,” he ended brightly.

Polly’s eyes had been growing rounder and rounder with surprise and delight.

“Oh!  Was it a Cherry-Pudding Story?” she asked eagerly.

“Why, have you read it?” and the little white face actually grew pink.  “My aunt wrote it, and sent us a paper that had it in!”

“Why—­ee!” cried Polly. “is n’t that funny!  And we’ve been trying to live nice stories, too—­all of us, up in the ward!  Miss Lucy said we’d see which could live the best one.  A lady told me the story.  And your aunt really made it all up?”

“Yes; she writes lots of stories,” smiled David.  “Then she sends them to mamma and me and wen they’re printed.”

“How splendid!” beamed Polly.  “When you get well enough to come down in our ward, you can tell us some, can’t you?”

The boy’s face saddened.  “I guess I can’t ever come,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because I was hurt so badly.  I don’t think I’m going to get well.”

“Oh, yes, you will!” asserted Polly.  “Of course Dr. Dudley will cure you!  Goodness!  You ought to have seen how I was all smashed up!  But Dr. Dudley cured me—­he can cure anybody!”

“He can?” echoed David, a little doubtfully.  “How ’d you get hurt?  Were you run over?”

“Yes, by a building,” Polly laughed.  “Only it did n’t run; it fell.  I was ’way up on the third floor, and all of a sudden it went—­just like that!” Polly’s little hands dropped flat in her lap.  “I heard a great noise, and felt myself going, and I remember I clutched hold of Uncle Gregory.  Then I did n’t know another thing till I woke up over in that corner.  See that bed with the dark-haired little girl in it, the third from the end?  That was my cot.”

“Was your leg broken?” asked David, in a most interested tone.

“Yes, my leg was broken, and my hip was discolated (Polly sometimes twisted her long words a little), and my ankle was hurt, and two ribs, and, oh, lots of things!  Doctor says now that he really did n’t think I’d ever walk again—­I mean, without crutches.”

“And you’re not lame a bit?” David returned incredulously.

“Not a mite, not the least mite!” Polly assured him.

“Then perhaps I shall get well,” the boy began brightly.

“Of course you will!” broke in Dr. Dudley’s happy voice.

He put his hand on the lad’s wrist, and stood for a moment, noting his pulse.

“It does n’t seem to hurt you to have visitors,” he smiled; “but they must n’t stay too long.  Say good-bye, Polly.”