"G.o.d is never cruel," said Helen, a beautiful, steadfast light shining in her eyes. "I couldn't let go the faith that G.o.d is always good. But father--oh, Polly, Polly, I am dreadfully afraid that father is going to lose his sight."

"What?" said Polly. "_What?_ father lose his sight? No, I'm not going to listen to you, Nell. You needn't talk like that. It's perfectly horrid of you. I'll go away at once and ask him. Father! Why, his eyes are as bright as possible. I'll go this minute and ask him."

"No, don't do that, Polly. I would never have spoken if I wasn't really sure, and I don't think it would be right to ask him, or to speak about it, until he tells us about it himself. But I began to guess it a little bit lately, when I saw how anxious mother seemed. For she was anxious, although she was the brightest of all bright people. And after her death father said I was to look through some of her letters; and I found one or two which told me that what I suspected was the case, and father may--indeed, he probably will--become quite blind, by-and-by. That was--that was--What's the matter, Polly?"

"Nothing," said Polly. "You needn't go on--you needn't say any more.

It's a horrid world, nothing is worth living for; pie-crust, nor housekeeping, nor nothing. I hate the world, and every one in it, and I hate _you_ most of all, Nell, for your horrid news. Father blind! No, I won't believe it; it's all a lie."

"Poor Polly," said Helen. "Don't believe it, dear, I wish _I_ didn't. I think I know a little bit how you feel. I'm not so hot and hasty and pa.s.sionate as you, and oh, I'm not half, nor a quarter, so clever, but still, I do know how you feel; I--Polly, you startle me."

"Only you don't hate me at this moment," said Polly. "And I--don't I hate you, just! There, you can say anything after that. I know I'm a wretch--I know I'm hopeless. Even mother would say I was hopeless if she saw me now, hating you, the kindest and best of sisters. But I do, yes, I do, most heartily. So you see you aren't like me, Helen."

"I certainly never hated any one," said Helen. "But you are excited, Polly, and this news is a shock to you. We won't talk about it one way or other, now, and we'll try as far as possible not to think of it, except in so far as it ought to make us anxious to carry out mother's plan."

Polly had crouched back away from the window, her little figure all huddled up, her cheeks with carnation spots on them, and her eyes, brimful of the tears which she struggled not to shed, were partly hidden by the folds of the heavy curtain which half-enveloped her.

"You were going to say something else dreadfully unpleasant," she remarked. "Well, have it out. Nothing can hurt me very much just now."

"It's about the strangers," said Helen. "The strangers who were to come in October. You surely can't have forgotten them, Polly."

Like magic the thunder-cloud departed from Polly's face. The tears dried in her bright eyes, and the curtain no longer enveloped her slight, young figure.

"Why, of course," she said. "The strangers, how could I have forgotten!

How curious we were about them. We didn't know their names. Nothing, nothing at all--except that there were two, and that they were coming from Australia. I always thought of them as Paul and Virginia. Dear, dear, dear, I shall have more housekeeping than ever on my shoulders with them about the place."

"They were coming in October," said Helen, quietly. "Everything was arranged, although so little was known. They were coming in a sailing vessel, and the voyage was to be a long one, and mother, herself, was going to meet them. Mother often said that they would arrive about the second week in October."

"In three weeks from now?" said Polly, "We are well on in September, now. I can't imagine how we came to forget Paul and Virginia. Why, of course, poor children, they must be quite anxious to get to us. I wonder if I'd be a good person to go and meet them. You are so shy with strangers, you know, Nell, and I'm not. Mother used to say I didn't know what _mauvaise honte_ meant. I don't say that I _like_ meeting them, poor things, but I'll do it, if it's necessary. Still, Helen, I cannot make out what special plan there is in the strangers coming. Nor what it has to do with father, with that horrid piece of news you told me a few minutes ago."

"It has a good deal to say to it, if you will only listen," said Helen.

"I have discovered by mother's letters that the father of the strangers is to pay to our father 400 a year as long as his children live here.

They were to be taught, and everything done for them, and the strangers'

father was to send over a check for 100 for them every quarter. Now, Polly, listen. Our father is not poor, but neither is he rich, and if--if what we fear is going to happen, he won't earn nearly so much money in his profession. So it seems a great pity he should lose this chance of earning 400 a year."

"But n.o.body wants him to lose it," said Polly. "Paul and Virginia will be here in three weeks, and then the pay will begin. 400 a year--let me see, that's just about eight pounds a week, that's what father says he spends on the house, that's a lot to spend, I could do it for much less. But no matter. What are you puckering your brows for, Helen? Of course the strangers are coming."

"Father said they were not to come," replied Helen. "He told me so some weeks ago. When they get to the docks he himself is going to meet them, and he will take them to another home which he has been inquiring about.

He says that we can't have them here now."

"But we must have them here," said Polly. "What nonsense! We must both of us speak to our father at once."

"I have been thinking it over," said Helen, in her gentle voice, "and I do really feel that it is a pity to lose this chance of helping father and lightening his cares. You see, Polly, it depends on us. Father would do it if he could trust us, you and me, I mean."

"Well, so he can trust us," replied Polly, glibly. "Everything will be all right. There's no occasion to make a fuss, or to be frightened. We have got to be firm, and rather old for our years, and if either of us puts down her foot she has got to keep it down."

"I don't know that at all," said Helen. "Mother sometimes said it was wise to yield. Oh, Polly, I don't feel at all wise enough for all that is laid on me. We have to be examples in everything. I do want to help father, but it would be worse to promise to help him and then to fail."

"I'm not the least afraid," said Polly. "The strangers must come, and father's purse must be filled in that jolly manner. I don't believe the story about his eyes, Nell, but it will do him good to feel that he has got a couple of steady girls like us to see to him. Now I'm arranging a list of puddings for next week, so you had better not talk any more.

We'll speak to father about Paul and Virginia after dinner."

CHAPTER IX.

LIMITS.

Even the wisest men know very little of household management, and never did an excellent and well-intentioned individual put, to use a well-known phrase, his foot more completely into it than Dr. Maybright when he allowed Polly to learn experience by taking the reins of household management for a week.

Except in matters that related to his own profession, Dr. Maybright was apt to be slightly absent-minded; here he was always keenly alive. When visiting a patient not a symptom escaped him, not a flicker of timid eyelids pa.s.sed unnoticed, not a pa.s.sing shade of color on the invalid's countenance but called for his acute observation. In household matters, however, he was apt to overlook trifles, and very often completely to forget what seemed to his family important arrangements. He was the kind of man who was sure to be very much beloved at home, for he was neither fretful nor fussy, but took large views of all things. Such people are appreciated, and if his children thought him the best of all men, his servants also spoke of him as the most perfect of masters.

"You might put anything before him," Mrs. Power would aver. "Bless his 'art, _he_ wouldn't see, nor _he_ wouldn't scold. Ef it were rinsings of the tea-pot he would drink it instead of soup; and I say, and always will say, that ef a cook don't jelly the soup for the like of a gentleman like the doctor what have no mean ways and no fusses, she ain't fit to call herself a cook."

So just because they loved him, Dr. Maybright's servants kept his table fairly well, and his house tolerably clean, and the domestic machinery went on wheels, not exactly oiled, but with no serious clog to their progress.

These things of course happened since Mrs. Maybright's death. In her day this gentlest and firmest of mistresses, this most tactful of women, kept all things in their proper place, and her servants obeyed her with both will and cheerfulness.

On the Sat.u.r.day before Polly's novitiate poor Dr. Maybright's troubles began. He had completely forgotten all about his promise to Polly, and was surprised when the little girl skipped into his study after breakfast, with her black frock put on more neatly than usual, her hair well brushed and pushed off her face, and a wonderful brown holland ap.r.o.n enveloping her from her throat to her ankles. The ap.r.o.n had several pockets, and certainly gave Polly a quaint and original appearance.

"Here I am, father," she said. "I have come for the money, please."

"The--the what, my dear?"

Dr. Maybright put up his eye-gla.s.s, and surveyed the little figure critically.

"Are these pockets for your school-books?" he said. "It is not a bad idea; only don't lose them, Polly. I don't like untidy books scattered here and there."

Polly took the opportunity to dart a quick, anxious glance into her father's eyes--they were bright, dark, clear. Of course Helen's horrid story was untrue. Her spirits rose, she gave a little skip, and clasped her hands on the Doctor's arm.

"These are housekeeping pockets, father," she said. "Nothing at all to say to books. I'm domestic, not intellectual; my housekeeping begins on Monday, you know, and I've come for the eighty shillings now. Can you give it to me in silver, not in gold, for I want to divide it, and pop it into the little box with divisions at once?"

"Bless me," said the Doctor, "I'd forgotten--I did not know that indigestion week was so near. Well, here you are, Polly, two pounds in gold and two pounds in silver. I can't manage more than two sovereigns'

worth of silver, I fear. Now my love, as you are strong, be merciful--give us only small doses of poison at each meal. I beseech of you, Polly, be temperate in your zeal."

"You laugh at me," said Polly, "Well, never mind. I'm too happy to care.

I don't expect you'll talk about poisoning when you have eaten my cheesecakes. And father, dear father, you _will_ let Paul and Virginia come? Nell and I meant to speak to you yesterday about them, but you were out all day. With me to housekeep, and Nell to look after everybody, you needn't have the smallest fear about Paul and Virginia; they can come and they can line your pockets, can't they?"

"My dear child, I have not an idea what you are talking about. Who _are_ Paul and Virginia--have I not a large enough family without taking in the inhabitants of a desert island? There, I can't wait to hear explanations now; that is my patients' bell--run away, my dear, run away."

Dr. Maybright always saw his poorer patients gratis on Sat.u.r.day morning from ten to twelve. This part of his work pleased him, for he was the sort of man who thought that the affectionate and grateful glance in the eye, and the squeeze of the hand, and the "G.o.d bless you, doctor," paid in many cases better than the guinea's worth. He had an interesting case this morning, and again Polly and her housekeeping slipped from his mind. He was surprised, therefore, in the interim between the departure of one patient and the arrival of another, to hear a somewhat tremulous tap at his study door, and on his saying "Come in," to see the pretty but decidedly ruffled face of his housemaid Alice presenting herself.

"Ef you please, Doctor, I won't keep you a minute, but I thought I'd ask you myself ef it's your wish as Miss Polly should go and give orders that on Monday morning I'm to turn the linen-press out from top to bottom, and to do it first of all before the rooms is put straight. And if I'm to unpick the blue muslin curtains, and take them down from where they was hung by my late blessed mistress's orders, in the spare room, and to fit them into the primrose room over the porch--for she says there's a Miss Virginy and a Master Paul coming, and the primrose room with the blue curtains is for one of them, she says. And I want to know from you, please, Doctor, if Miss Polly is to mistress it over me? And to take away the keys of the linen-press from me, and to follow me round, and to upset all my work, what I never stood, nor would stand. I want to know if it's your wish, Doctor?"

"The fact is, Alice," began the Doctor--he put his hand to his brow, and a dim look came over his eyes--"the fact is--ah, that is my patients' bell, I must ask you to go, Alice, and to--to moderate your feelings. I have been anxious to give Miss Polly a lesson in experience, and it is only for a week. You will oblige me very much, Alice, by helping me in this matter."

The Doctor walked to the door as he spoke, and opened it courteously.