Dr. Dudley’s office was without an occupant when Polly peeped in.  The Doctor had not returned from dinner, and David had gone home for the rest of the day.  The little girl wandered about the room, too full of vague dread to care for books, or even for the fine collection of sea shells, which usually she never tired of.  They had been brought home from foreign shores by an old uncle of the physician’s, and now, ranged on their wide shelves, they gleamed out from a farther corner of the office in all the delicate tints of their wonderful family.

But to-day Polly passed them by with only a sigh, remembering the happy times that she and David and Leonora had had in their close company, now playing that they were mermaids, come to tell them strange tales of the under-seas, now holding them to their ears, to catch the mysterious, fascinating songs of the ocean which they were always singing.

“Here already?” broke in the Doctor’s pleasant voice.  “I don’t believe they gave you much of a dinner.”

“Yes, it was good; but I was n’t hungry this noon,” Polly replied, with a wan little smile.

“You were in such a hurry to come down and see me that it took away your appetite—­was that it?” he laughed.

“I don’t know,” was the sober answer.

The Doctor glanced furtively at her face, and grew grave at once.  He squared some books and magazines upon the table, and then sat down in his lounging-chair, pulling Polly to his knee.

“I want to know more about that Aunt Jane of yours,” he began.  “Was you mother her sister, or—­”

“Oh, no, she was n’t!” Polly interrupted.  “Mamma was an only child, just like me.”

“And your father—­did he have brothers or sisters?”

“I don’t know,” she answered slowly.

“He died when I was three years old.  I can only just remember him.”

“Do you recollect what Aunt Jane’s name was before she married?  Was it May?”

Polly shook her head doubtfully.  “I can’t seem to think,” she mused.  “Oh!  I guess it was Carter, ’cause she’s always saying that Maude is clear Carter, just like her folds, and Marcus is all Simpson, like Uncle Gregory.”

“What was you mother’s maiden name, her name when she was a girl?” the Doctor next questioned.

“Phebe Illingworth.  Grandma Illingworth was her mother.  She lived with us.  She died the year before mamma did.”

“Thistledown,” went on the Doctor, “some of my questions may sound rude, but it is important that I know a little more than I ever have known of your family history.  I think you told me that your mother gave piano lessons.”

“Yes, and grandma gave lessons on the violin and guitar, and singing lessons too.”

“And what became of the piano and other musical instruments?” asked the Doctor quickly.

“I think Aunt Jane sold them.  She sold ’most everything.  Some of the furniture she’s got now.”