“I’m so glad she won’t die,” breathed Polly, wholly lost to his opinion of her; and her face gleamed with something of her old brightness.

“I didn’t know you were so fond of her,” observed Dr. Valentine grimly; “indeed, to speak truthfully, I have yet to learn that anybody is fond of her, Polly.”

“Now if you really want to help her,” he continued thoughtfully, pulling his beard, as Polly did not answer, “I can give you one or two hints that might be of use.”

“Oh!  I do, I do,” cried Polly with eagerness.

“It will be tiresome work,” said Dr. Valentine, “but it will be a piece of real charity, and perhaps, Polly, it’s as well for you to begin now as to wait till you can belong to forty charity clubs, and spend your time going to committee meetings.”  And he laughed not altogether pleasantly.  How was Polly to know that Mrs. Valentine was immersed up to her ears in a philanthropic sea with the smallest possible thought for the doctor’s home?  “Now that maid,” said the physician, dropping his tone to a confidential one, “is as well as the average, but she’s not the one who is to amuse the old lady.  It’s that she needs more than medicine, Polly.  She actually requires diversion.”

Poor Polly stood as if turned to stone.  Diversion!  And she had thrown away all chance of that.

“She is suffering for the companionship of some bright young nature,” Dr. Valentine proceeded, attributing the dismay written all over the girl’s face to natural unwillingness to do the service.  “After she gets over this attack she needs to be read to for one thing; to be told the news; to be made to forget herself.  But of course, Polly,” he said hastily, buttoning his top coat, and opening the outer door, “it’s too much to ask of you; so think no more about it, child.”

XII

NEW WORK FOR POLLY

It was Saturday morning, and Polly ran upstairs with a bright face, the morning Journal in her hand.  “I’m going to stay with Mrs. Chatterton, Hortense,” she announced to that functionary in the dressing-room.

“And a comfairte may it gif to you,” said Hortense, with a vicious shake of the silk wrapper in her hand, before hanging it in its place.  “Madame has the tres diablerie, cross as de two steeks, what you call it, dis morning.”

Polly went softly into the room, closing the door gently after her.  In the shadow of one corner of the large apartment, sat Mrs. Chatterton under many wrappings in the depths of an invalid’s chair.  Polly went up to her side.

“Would you like to have me read the news, Mrs. Chatterton?” she asked gently.

Mrs. Chatterton turned her head and looked at her.  “No,” she was about to say shortly, just as she had repulsed many little offers of Polly’s for the past few days; but somehow this morning the crackling of the fresh sheet in the girl’s hand, suggestive of crisp bits of gossip, was too much for her to hear indifferently, especially as she was in a worse state of mind than usual over Hortense and her bad temper.