At any other time she would have been pleased at the thought of meeting Dr. Dudley’s friend of whom she had heard so many delightful things; but now a vague terror possessed her, lest he, being a part of that awful law,—­which to her was only a name of dread,—­might send her directly back to Aunt Jane’s.

Polly rarely had a fall, so light and sure of foot was she; but at the top of the flight she stumbled and came near going headlong.  This, turning her thoughts suddenly into another path, seemed somewhat to steady her quaking nerves, and when she reached the office door she was ready to smile a brave, though shy, greeting to the lawyer.

Jack Brewster was in appearance the opposite of Dr. Dudley.  The physician was tall and broad-shouldered, with no surplus flesh; yet none would have called him thin.  The lawyer was slight almost as a boy, of fair complexion, with an abundance of wavy brown hair, and eyes that had a habit of shining as if their owner had just received a bit of good news.  They shone now, as he took one of Polly’s little hands in both his own, and told her how glad he was to make her acquaintance.

“I have n’t any little girl at my house,” he went on smilingly, “but there’s a boy who makes things pretty lively.  When I started to come away this evening he hugged my leg, and kept saying, ‘No sir-ee-sir!  No sir-ee-sir!’ till I finally had to go back and tell him his usual bedtime story.”

“How old is he?” asked Polly, her fears quite forgotten.

“He will be two years, the third of next month.  Bob,” whirling around to the Doctor, “why have n’t you brought Miss Polly out to see us?  I’m ashamed of you!”

The physician laughed.  “I am not very neighborly, I’ll admit,” he returned.  “Sick people have crowded out the well ones lately.  I know well folks will keep.”

“Then the only way for me to get hold of you is to feign a chill or a fever or a broken leg—­all right!  Thank you for the cue!  And now, Miss Polly,” he went on cheerily, “I want you hones opinion of that aunt of yours.  Tell me, please, just how she makes you feel.”

“Wh-y,” hesitated the surprised little girl, “if I should say right out, I’m afraid it would n’t sound very polite or—­”

“Don’t think anything about politeness just now, please.  Open your heart frankly, and let me see what is there in regard to her.  Don’t be afraid to say exactly what you think.  It may help me very much.  I want to be able to look at her through your clear eyes.”

A shadow darkened the fair little face, and pain crept in, and stayed.

“She seems,” Polly began slowly, “like a dreadful dream—­you know, when you wake up all shivery, and are so glad it is n’t real.  Only”—­with a little catch—­“Aunt Jane is real!  Sometimes I feel sick all over when I think about her, and going back there—­oh,” she burst out passionately, “I’d rather die than go back to live with her!  Mr. Brewster, don’t make me go!  Please don’t make me go!” The words came with a half sob, but she fought the tears back, and her appealing eyes searched his face for hope.