When the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly.  I saw, as she entered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the fire had died out in her eyes.  Her face was pale, and its expression sad, but enduring.

“Polly,” said I, kindly, “sit down.  I would like to have some talk with you.”

The girl seemed taken by surprise.  Her face warmed a little, and her eyes, which had been turned aside from mine, looked at me with a glance of inquiry.

“There, Polly”—­and I pointed to a chair—­“sit down.”

She obeyed, but with a weary, patient air, like one whose feelings were painfully oppressed.

“Polly,” said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, “has anything troubled you of late?”

Her face flushed and her eyes reddened.

“If there has, Polly, and I can help you in any way, speak to me as a friend.  You can trust me.”

I was not prepared for the sudden and strong emotion that instantly manifested itself.  Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed out, with a violence that startled me.  I waited until she grew calm, and then said, laying a hand kindly upon her as I spoke—­

“Polly, you can talk to me as freely as if I were your mother.  Speak plainly, and if I can advise you or aid you in any way, be sure that I will do it.”

“I don’t think you can help me any, ma’am, unless it is to bear my trouble more patiently,” she answered, in a subdued way.

“Trouble, child!  What trouble?  Has anything gone wrong with you?”

The manner in which this inquiry was made, aroused her, and she said quickly and with feeling: 

“Wrong with me?  O no, ma’am!”

“But you are in trouble, Polly.”

“Not for myself, ma’am—­not for myself,” was her earnest reply.

“For whom, then, Polly?”

The girl did not answer for some moments.  Then with a long, deep sigh, she said: 

“You never saw my brother Tom, ma’am.  Oh, he was such a nice boy, and I was so fond of him!  He had a hard place where he worked, and they paid him so little that, poor fellow! if I hadn’t spent half my wages on him, he’d never have looked fit to be seen among folks.  When he was eighteen he seemed to me perfect.  He was so good and kind.  But—­” and the girl’s voice almost broke down—­“somehow, he began to change after that.  I think he fell into bad company.  Oh, ma’am!  It seemed as if it would have killed me the first time I found that he had been drinking, and was not himself.  I cried all night for two or three nights.  When we met again I tried to talk with Tom about it, but he wouldn’t hear a word, and, for the first time in his life, got angry with his sister.

“It has been going on from bad, to worse ever since, and I’ve almost given up hope.”

“He’s several years younger than you are, Polly.”