“Then I’ll be your friend once more,” consented Polly with a slow step toward Alexia, “that is, if you never in all this world say such a dreadful thing again, Alexia Rhys.”

“Don’t ask me.  You know I won’t,” promised Alexia, her spirits rising.  So Polly went over to her and set a kiss on her wet cheek, comforting her as only Polly could, and before long the pink satin bow, with the spool of silk hanging to it, and the scissors were found under the table, and Polly attacked the muslin cloud with redoubled vigor, and the girls’ voices carried merry laughter and scraps of happy talk, and Mrs. Chatterton stole out of the little reading-room next to them and shut herself up in her own apartment.

“Dear me, how fine that doll’s gown is to be, Polly,” exclaimed Alexia after a bit.  “Is the lace going on all around the bottom?”

“Yes,” said Polly, biting off her thread, and giving the muslin breadths a little shake; “Felicie is tucking the flounce; then I shall have to sew on the lace.”

“How many dolls are there to refurbish before to-morrow?” asked Alexia suddenly.

“Four—­no, five,” said Polly, rapidly counting; “for the one that Grandpapa gave her Christmas before last, Celestine, you know, does need a new waist.  I forgot her.  But that doesn’t count the new sashes, and the hair ribbons and the lace ruffles around the necks; I guess there are almost fifty of them.  Dear me, I must hurry,” and she began to sew faster yet.

“What a nuisance all those dolls are,” said Alexia, “they take up every bit of your spare time.”

“That isn’t the worst of it,” said Polly.  “Alexia, I don’t know what we shall do, for Phronsie works over them till she’s quite tired out.  You ought to see her this morning.”

“She’s up in the play-house at it now, I suppose,” said Alexia, “dressing every one of them for the party to-morrow.”

“Yes,” said Polly, “she is.”

“Well, I hope no one will give her a doll to-morrow,” said Alexia, “at least no one but Mr. King.  Of course he will.”

“Oh! no one else will,” declared Polly cheerfully.  “Of course not, Alexia.”

And then Jencks walked in with his seven boxes exactly alike as to size, and deposited them solemnly in a row on the blue and white lounge.  “For Miss Phronsie Pepper, and not to be opened till to-morrow, Miss Mary.”

“Polly,” said Alexia in a stage whisper, and jumping up as Jencks disappeared, to run over to the row, “do you suppose they are dolls?”

“I shall die if they are,” declared Polly desperately, and sitting quite still.

“They surely look like dolls on the very covers,” said Alexia, fingering the cords.  “Would it be so very wrong to open one box, and just relieve our suspense?  Just one, Polly?”

“No, no, don’t,” cried Polly sharply.  “They belong to Phronsie.  But O dear me!”

“And just think,” said Alexia, like a Job’s comforter, and looking over at the clock, “it’s only half-past eleven.  Polly Pepper, there’s time for oceans more to come in yet.”