The light that flashed into Polly’s brown eyes gave them the gleam of a sunny brook.  She clasped her small hands ecstatically, crying, “O—­o—­h! it would be—­super-bon-donjical!”

The gentlemen laughed, the tall, white-haired one until his shoulders shook.  Then he rapped on the table, and said something about “Miss Polly May,” to which the little girl did n’t pay much attention, and there was a big chorus of ayes.  After that Polly bade them all good-bye, and went upstairs with Dr. Dudley.

“Children, I have something to tell you,” the physician announced.

Everybody was at once alert.  A solemn hush fell on the ward.

“What do you think?” he went on;—­“Polly May is a full-fledged member of the hospital staff!”

Nobody spoke.  Nobody even smiled but Miss Lucy.  Black eyes and brown eyes, blue eyes and gray eyes stared uncomprehendingly at the Doctor.

“You don’t quite understand that, do you?” he laughed.  “Well, it means that Polly is n’t going home to her aunt.  Polly is going to stay with you!”

Then what squeals and shouts and shrieks of joy from all over the ward!

Chapter III

Popover

For a week the convalescent ward laughed and sang and almost forgot that it was part of the big House of Suffering.  Polly herself beamed on everybody, and all the hospital people seemed to agree that very good fortune had come to her, and to be glad in it.

Then there came a hot day which tried the patience of the small invalids.  Polly flitted from cot to cot with her little fluttering fan and her cooling drinks.  The afternoon breeze had not yet arrived when Brida MacCarthy begged for a story.

“It will have to be and old one,” was the smiling response, for Polly’s supply of cat tales—­the kind which the little Irish girl invariably wanted—­was limited.

“I don’t care what ’t is,” whined Brida,—­“anything ’bout a kitty.  Oh, don’t I wisht I had me own darlin’ Popover right here in me arms!—­Why don’t yer begin?” urged the fretful voice, for Polly sat gazing at the polished floor.

A kindly, fascinating scheme was taking shape in the story-teller’s brain.

“Oh, Brida,” she cried, in suppressed eagerness, lowering her voice to a whisper that should not reach Miss Lucy at the other end of the ward, “I’ve thought of the loveliest thing!  Your home is n’t very far from here, is it?”

“A good ways—­why?” and Brida’s little pale, freckled face showed only mild interest.

“But where do you live—­when you’re home?” Polly insisted.

“’T 739 Liberty Street is right down by Union!  I can find that easy enough!  Say, don’t you s’pose your mother ’d let me take Popover and bring her up here?  You know Miss Lucy wants me to go out to walk every day now.”

“Oh, Polly!” the pale face grew pink with joy.  “Sure, me mother ’d let her come!  Oh, Polly, if you would!”