“Thank you, dear,” the little lady finally said; but the words were spoken as with an effort.

“I am afraid I have tired you,” mourned Polly.

“No, little one; you have only given me something to think of.  You read unusually well.  Perhaps we’ll have another story some day.  You don’t need to stay, of you have anything else to do.  I shall want nothing until Miss Parkin comes.”

Polly felt that she was dismissed, yet she had promised the nurse to remain.  She hesitated a moment, and then said, “Good-bye,” and went out.  She met Miss Parkin in the hall, and explained.

Up in the ward, Miss Lucy was quick to see that Polly was troubled.

“How did the story go?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Polly sighed.  “I guess she did n’t like it, ’cause she seemed to be thinking about something else, and she said I need n’t stay any longer.  I thought it would make her happier,” she lamented, “and all it did was to tire her!” Polly’s eyes were brimming over with tears.

“Never mind, dear,” said Miss Lucy comfortingly.  “You did your part, and as well as you could; that’s all any of us can do.  So don’t worry about it.  There’s Brida looking this way, as if she were just longing to talk with you.”

“She shan’t wait another minute,” smiled, and off she skipped, to make Brida and her followers merry.

Chapter VIII

A warning From Aunt Jane

Towards noon came a telephone call for Polly to go down to Dr. Dudley’s office.  Usually she sped gladly to obey such a summons; now she was assailed by a sudden fear.

“Have I made her very much worse?” was her instant inquiry, as the Doctor opened his door?

“Made whom worse?” he questioned.

“Why, Mrs. Jocelyn!”

“I have heard nothing from her.  What is it?”

Polly told of her visit and of the reading.

“Is that all!” the Doctor laughed.  “Don’t worry about it any more, little girl!  Your stories are not the kind that harm people.  What did you read?  One that I know?”

“I don’t think so,” Polly replied.  “I did n’t tell you about Prince Benito, did I?”

The physician shook his head.  “Suppose you tell it to me now,” he suggested.

So, perched comfortably upon the arm of his chair, Polly related the story of “The Wonderful White Flower.”

“I see,” he mused, as Polly stopped speaking.  He was silent a moment.  Then he went on.

“Mrs. Jocelyn lost her only child, a beautiful little boy, when he was eight years old.  It is not unlikely that this story awakened tender memories.”

“I’m sorry I made her feel bad,” grieved Polly.

“I would n’t be if I were you.”

A “Why!” of wonder was rounding Polly’s lips, as the physician continued:—­

“Perhaps you have done Mrs. Jocelyn more good than you will ever know.  Since her husband and little boy died she has shut people out of her life, seldom leaving her home, and rarely entertaining a guest.  From what she has said to me I judge that she has allowed herself to brood over her sorrows till she has become bitter and melancholy.  Let’s hope that your little story will open her eyes.”