“Was it nice furniture?”

“I think it was lovely.  There was a beautiful sideboard—­that was grandma’s—­with carved birds on it, and the wood was light brown—­kind of yellowish—­and so pretty!”

“Was that sold?”

Polly nodded sadly.

“Did you mother ever go to the bank, do you remember?”

“Oh, yes, she did!  She used to carry a little book.”

“Did you always have plenty of money to use—­for food and clothes and so on?”

“I guess so.  We had nice things to eat, and pretty things to wear.”

“You never heard of any will, I suppose?”

The curls shook slowly.

“Your mother was not sick long, was she?” the Doctor asked gently.

“She was never sick.  She was giving a music lesson, one afternoon, and she fainted away—­they could n’t make her live.”  The sorrowful voice softened almost to a whisper, and the golden head drooped to Dr. Dudley’s shoulder.

He touched his lips to the white forehead, and tightened his clasp of the slender little form.

“I am sorry enough to have to bring all this back,” he said; “but, Thistledown, I must discover a way, if possible, to keep you from that woman.  I want to find out just how much legal right she has in regard to you.  If we could only obtain sufficient evidence to prove that she is not a proper person to care for you —­”

Polly had suddenly sat up straight, her eyes round with the startling, beautiful thought.

“Do you mean,” she broke in excitedly, “that I should n’t have to go back to Aunt Jane?”

The Doctor bowed.  “But—­” he began.

“Oh, then I can stay with you!” she burst out.  “She is n’t proper, she is n’t nice, she is n’t—­anything!”

“I know, my dear!” smiled the Doctor.  “But such things are hard to prove.  I shall keep you, Thistledown, just as long as the law will let me; but the law must be obeyed, and we can’t tell how things will come out.”

“Won’t I have to go back to-morrow?” she asked eagerly.

“No, indeed,” he assured her.  “Were you dreading that?  Don’t be afraid, Thistledown!  Keep up a stout heart!  You shall stay here for the present anyway.”  He looked at his watch.  “I think I’ll find Jack at home now,” he said; and, letting Polly slip to her feet, he placed her in his chair and crossed over to the telephone.

Polly listened breathlessly.  She knew that “Jack” must mean only Jack Brewster, a lawyer of the city, who had been a college classmate of the Doctor’s.  The two were close friends.

“That you, Jack?” Polly heard.  “Yes.  I want to see you professionally, as soon as possible.  No,” laughing; “but it is important.  Can you come up this evening?  All right.  Good-bye.”

“Jack Brewster will do his best for us,” the Doctor said, coming back.  “He says he will be here at seven or a little after.  I think it probably that he will wish to ask you a few questions; but you won’t be afraid of him.  He is one of the gentlest men I ever knew—­and the strongest,” he added.