Polly was shocked.  In the light of what the physician had told her, she realized that the boy was ignorantly thwarting the efforts of those who were trying to save his life.  She did not know what to say.”

“Do you like stories?” she finally asked.

The lad looked surprised, but answered, “Some kinds.  Why?”

“I thought I’d tell you one, if you’d like me to.”

“Do you know one ’bout soldiers?”

“I don’t believe I do; but I know a song about a soldier.”

“Can you sing?”

“Yes.”

“Sing, then.”

“Will you lie still if I will?” asked Polly.

“It’s a go!”

So Polly sang the old, old song of “The Drummer Boy of Waterloo,” one that her grandmother had taught her when she was a wee girl.

The boy was true to his promise, and remained motionless until the last note ceased.

“Sing it again!” he commanded.  “That’s a dandy!”

Twice, three times more, the sad little ditty was sung; then the sweet voice slipped softly into Holland’s “Lullaby,” which had been learned from hearing it sung by Miss Lucy to restless little patients.

“Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover,
Crooning so drowsily, crying so low. 
Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover,
Down into wonderland,
Down to the underland,
Down into wonderland go!

“Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover! 
Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn. 
Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover,
Into the stilly world,
Into the lily world. 
Into the lily world gone!”

Before Polly reached the last word the song had died almost to a breath, for Burton was “gone”—­fast asleep.  For a time she watched him.  His breathing was slow and steady.  Finally she slipped softly from her chair, and glanced across the room.  Miss Price nodded and smiled, and Polly tip-toed towards the door, beckoning her to follow.

Outside, in the corridor, the nurse heard of the mischievous act of her little patient.

“I did n’t think he would do that!” sighed Miss Price, and she shook her head gravely.  “You are right to tell me at once,” she went on; “but I will not let Burton know that I learned of it through you.  Thank you for coming down.  You may like to hear,” she added, as Polly was starting away, “that I had good news from Turkey this morning.  My sister is better; they think she is going to get well.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” beamed Polly.  Then impulsively, she put up her arms, and the next minute they were around the neck of Miss Hortensia Price.

This time she felt sure that the stately nurse did like kisses, else why should she return them so cordially, and presently Polly was skipping upstairs, full of gladness that her service had been a success.