The brief service over, the flower girls strewed roses in the path of the bridal pair all the way to the great west drawing-room.

It was like a queen’s pageant in a vision of fairyland.  The myriad lights, the gaily dressed children, the lavish profusion of flowers, the soft music floating from a bank of ferns,—­all united to make the scene unusually dreamlike and beautiful.

As the bride stood to receive her guests, in her simple white silk gown, the necklace of pearly her only ornament, Polly gazed into her sweet, thoughtful face, and longed to throw her arms around her neck and give her a loving hug.  But she had to be content with only one little decorous kiss, and she consoled herself with the words that had been singing in her heart all the day, “She is going to be my mother!  She is going to be my mother!”

There were many guests, and it was long before the bride and groom were free from hand-shaking.  Polly only caught glimpses now and then of the two she loved best.  She was with a group of merry children, when she heard her name softly called.  Turning, she saw Dr. Dudley in the doorway.  She ran to him, and he led her into the library, where his bride was talking with Mr. Brewster, the lawyer.

Mrs. Dudley drew her down beside her on the divan, and Mr. Brewster soon took leave of them.  The Doctor seated himself on her right.

“This document,” he smiled, tapping lightly the paper in his hand, “makes you legally our own daughter.  We have just signed it, for we wanted everything settled before going away.”

With a quick, graceful gesture, Polly wound an arm around each neck.

“My dear new father and mother,” she whispered solemnly, as if it were a prayer, “I will be just as good, always, as I know how to be, so you won’t ever be sorry you made me your own little girl!”