“Oh, but she will get well and write again!” Polly said softly.  Then she sighed, thinking of the bright plans that had so suddenly ceased.

Her thoughts went farther back, to the days of watching and waiting for the message that had never come, to the sleepless nights of grieving—­

“Oh!” she burst out impetuously, “he’s got to know it!  Somebody must tell him how he has made her suffer!  Miss Nita would do it beautifully; but I don’t suppose I could hire her to!  Maybe father will.”

When this suggestion was made to him, however, Dr. Dudley shook his head promptly, and his impulsive daughter began at once to form other plans.  “Mother wouldn’t,” she told herself.  “No use asking her.  Dear! dear! if there were only somebody besides me!  Perhaps I can coax Miss Nita—­”

A telephone call broke in upon her musings, and the disturbing thoughts were exchanged for a ride and a luncheon with Patricia Illingworth.  On her way home in the afternoon, the matter came up again.

“I may as well go now and have it over with,” she decided suddenly, and she turned into a street which led to the home of the Reverend Norman Parcell.

Yes, he was in and alone, the maid said, and Polly was shown directly to the study.

“How do you do, Miss Polly!” The minister grasped her hand cordially.  “This is a pleasant surprise.”  He drew forward an easy chair and saw her comfortably seated.

“Have you heard that Miss Twining is ill?” Polly began.

“Miss Twining?” he repeated interrogatively.  “M-m—­no, I had not heard.  Is she an especial friend of yours, some one I ought to know?” He smiled apologetically.  “I find it difficult always to place people on the instant.”

His apology might not have been attended by a smile if Polly’s indignant thought had been vocal.  When she spoke, her voice was tense.

“Yes, Mr. Parcell, she is a very dear friend.”  Her lip quivered, and she shook herself mentally; she was not going to break down at this juncture.  She went quickly on, ahead of the phrase of sympathy on its way to the minister’s lips.  “She lives at the June Holiday Home.”

“Oh, yes!  I remember!  Her illness is not serious, I hope.”

“I am afraid so,” returned Polly, passing quickly toward what she had come to talk about.  “I don’t suppose you know what a beautiful woman she is.”  She looked straight into his eyes, and waited.

“No,” he answered slowly, a suggestion of doubt in his tone, “I presume not.  I have seen her only occasionally.”

“She told me that you called upon her every year or two.”  Polly hesitated.  “You can judge something by her poems.  You received the book of poems she sent you?”

“Oh, yes!” he brightened.  “I have the book.”

“How do you like it, Mr. Parcell?  Don’t you think the poems wonderful?” Polly was sitting very straight in the cushioned chair, her brown eyes fixed keenly on the minister’s face.