“I am not afraid of anybody that is your friend,” returned Polly.

The Doctor smiled.  “A very pretty compliment!” he told her; but she gave his praise scant notice.

“I wonder,” she said, “if you would like to see the little book mama wrote about my Anne sisters.”

“You what?” he queried.

“My Anne sisters.”

Only his twinkling eyes disclosed his amusement.  “Ancestors you mean, don’t you?” he corrected gently.

“Maybe,” doubtfully; “but there are lots of Annes in it that are related to me.”

“Where is the book?”

“Right upstairs, in ‘Under the Lilacs.’  Don’t you remember, you went down to Aunt Jane’s, and got some of my books when I was able to sit up?”

“I recollect,” he nodded.

“Well, that was why I sent for this one ’specially, because I knew it had the little book init, and mamma told me always to keep it.  So I thought I’d better have it with me.”

“Run up and get it, child!  It may be—­” Polly was gone.

It was indeed a very little book that she put in the Doctor’s hand, simply a few sheets of small note paper sewed together.

“It has about the Illingworth family in one part, and about the May folds in the other,” Polly explained; but it is to be doubted if Dr. Dudley heard her, so eagerly was he scanning those lists of names.  He clutched at one forlorn thread of hope, and as he read, the feeble thread waxed into a cord of strength.

“Polly—­” he began brightly, and then stopped.  After all he could not be sure, and he must not raise happy anticipations only to see them blasted.  His face shaded, and he finished the sentence quite differently from what he had intended.  He went on gravely, “Did the Simpsons take charge of everything after your mother went?  Was nobody else there?”

“Not to stay, except Mrs. Brooks, who lived downstairs.  She was n’t there much.  I guess Aunt Jane did n’t want her.”

“Probably not,” remarked the Doctor grimly.

“Is the book any good?” she asked wistfully.

Again he was tempted to tell her, and again he restrained himself.

“I think it will be of use to us,” he replied.

“Did you see all the Annes?” she queried.  “Are n’t there a lot of them?”

He nodded laughingly.  “It is a good name and I have discovered yours among them.”

“Did n’t you know it before?  It is Marry Anne, after my great-aunt Mary Anne Illingworth.  I don’t like it so well as Polly.”

“Or Thistledown,” he added gaily.  His spirits had risen wonderfully since seeing the little book.

The sudden change had its effect on Polly, and when she went upstairs it was with something of her accustomed blitheness.

The afternoon passed pleasantly, but after supper the little girl grew unaccountably nervous.  She started at every ring of the telephone, and gave queer, absent-minded answers to Leonora’s questions.  Finally Miss Lucy, comprehending the situation, proposed a game; but Polly, usually the quickest of the children, allowed the others to eclipse her, while her ears were strained for the expected summons.  At last, when the message came, she started downstairs with a fluttering heart, her nerves a-quiver with irrational fear.