At last Polly, feeling as if she could not endure another five minutes of it, glanced up to see the old lady’s eyes actually sparkling; her mouth had fallen into contented curves, and the jeweled hand resting on the chair-arm was playing with the fringe, while she leaned forward that she might not lose a word.

“Read that again, Polly,” she said, “the list of presents exhibited at Arabella Granger’s wedding.  I didn’t hear any mention of the Archibalds.  It can’t be that they have fallen out; and read more slowly.”

So Polly began once more the long lists of gifts that ushered in the matrimonial happiness of Mrs. John Westover nee Miss Arabella Granger; this time, however, stimulated by the pleasure she was giving, to find it an endurable task.

It seemed to Polly as if Mrs. John Westover had everything on earth given to her that could possibly be presented at a wedding; nevertheless the list was gone through again bravely, Polly retracing her steps two or three times to read the items over for her listener’s slow digestion.

“The Archibalds are not mentioned, either as being there or sending a gift, nor the Harlands, nor the Smythes, so I am very glad I didn’t remember her,” said Mrs. Chatterton, drawing herself up with a relieved sigh.  “Those presents sound fine on paper, but it isn’t as well as she might have done if she had made a different match.  Now something else, Polly,” and she dismissed Mrs. Westover with a careless wave of her hand.  Polly flew off into the fashion hints, and was immediately lost in the whirl of coming toilets.  No one noticed when the door opened, so of course no one saw Mrs. Whitney standing smiling behind the old lady’s big chair.

“Well, Polly,” said a pleasant voice suddenly.

Down went Town Talk to the floor as Polly sprang up with a glad cry, and Mrs. Chatterton turned around nervously.

“Oh, Auntie—­Auntie!” cried Polly, convulsively clinging to her, “are you really here, and is Dicky home?”

“Dear child,” said Mrs. Whitney, as much a girl for the moment as Polly herself.  And pressing kisses on the red lips, while she folded her close—­“Yes, Dick is at home.  There, go and find him; he is in Mrs. Pepper’s room.”

“I am glad to see you so much better, Mrs. Chatterton,” said Mrs. Whitney, leaning over the invalid’s chair to lay the tenderest of palms on the hand resting on the chair-arm.

“Oh, yes, Marian; I am better,” said Mrs. Chatterton, looking around for Polly, then down at the delicious Town Talk carelessly thrown on the floor.  “Will you send her back as soon as possible?” she asked with her old imperativeness.

“Who—­Polly?” said Mrs. Whitney, following the glance.  “Why, she has gone to see Dick, you know.  Now, why cannot I read a bit?” and she picked up the paper.

“You don’t know what has been read,” said Mrs. Chatterton as Mrs. Whitney drew up a chair and sat down, running her eye in a practiced way over the front page.  “Dear me, it makes me quite nervous, Marian, to see you prowling around all over the sheet that way.”