The lady received the holiday-attired parcel with a surprised look.

“Mrs. Jocelyn bought some presents,” explained Polly, “for me to give to my friends, a I chose Robert Browning’s ‘Poems’ for you.  I hope you’ll like it.”

“Like it!  Why, you dear child!” Miss Price dropped the book in her lap, and caught Polly’s hands in hers.  “How did you ever guess that Browning is my favorite poet?”

“You said so, one day, when we were playing Authors, up in the ward.”

“And you remembered!” She began untying the ribbon.  “I was thinking only yesterday that I must have a copy.”

The volume was richly bound, and beautiful with illustrations.  Miss Price fingered it with the caressing tough of a booklover.  If her thanks were a bit conventional, Polly knew that back of them lay real gratitude and appreciation.

The little girl went back to her parcels with an added gladness.  She began piling them on her arm.

“Don’t carry too many,” warned Dr. Dudley.  “I’ll take them up for you.”

“I will bring some along when I come.”  Promised Miss Price.

So Polly put back all but two dolls and a few small packages, and started upstairs humming softly a gay little air.

Presently the song was hushed by happy thoughts.  To think of living in a dear little cottage, all alone with Miss Lucy and Dr. Dudley!  To sit down at the table, three times a day, with them both!  And at bedtime!  There was never room for jealousy in Polly’s heart; but sometimes when Miss Lucy cuddled the little ones in her arms, her mother-hungry should felt starved out of its rightful food.  And now!—­she could almost feel the dear arms around her!  She stopped halfway up the second flight, and bent her head reverently.

“O Lord Jesus, I think thee!” she whispered.  “Please let mamma know how beautiful it is going to be!  For Thy Name’s sake.  Amen.”

The door of the ward was open; but so light were her footfalls that she stood on the threshold a moment before being noticed.  Then came a shout and a rush and such frantic huggings that Polly and her parcels seemed in danger of coming to sorrow.

“That is for Stella,” Polly finally managed to say, freeing a hand long enough to pass the box over one or two heads to the little girl beyond.

This turned the attention in Stella Pope’s direction, and Polly hastened down the room to a cot where a little girl lay, her big blue eyes staring out in line with her pillow, taking no note of the commotion going on behind her.

“Trotty, see what I’ve brought you!” was Polly’s cheery greeting.

The little four-year-old turned slightly, with a wavering smile.  She was a strange wisp of a girl, and Polly was not in the least disappointed when she made no answer, only watched the fingers that were untying the bright ribbon.

“Now—­what do you s’pose?” smiled Polly, staying the cover a moment to make the gift of more effect.