“Oh!” beamed Polly.

“And to-morrow morning,” her hostess went on, “we are invited to a musicale across the street, at Mrs. Trowbridge’s, where we shall the wonderful little violinist who is being made so much of by musicians.”

“Won’t that be lovely!” cried Polly.  “I have n’t heard any music in ever so long, except at church, and David’s singing.”

Mrs. Jocelyn smiled appreciatively.  “I knew you would enjoy it,” she said.  “Now I shall be busy for a few minutes, and you can do anything you choose,—­mouse around the library, or play on the piano, or make out a list of what you’d like to give your friends.  We will start soon after luncheon.  You won’t have time for much; I’m only going to make a salad dressing which I fancy I can mix a little better than Tilly can.  Then I’ll help you with the presents.”

Polly had taken lessons of her mother, and her fingers still remembered bits of the pieces she had learned; so the piano was her first choice.  Lured on by the familiar airs, she played and played, forgetting all but the music she loved.

Mrs. Jocelyn returned from the kitchen, and, unnoticed, slipped into a seat back of the player.

Finally Polly turned around.

“I felt you there!” she laughed.  “Have I hindered you?”

“You have been charming me.  Why, child, I did n’t know you could play so well!  And all out of practice, too!  I should n’t think you could recollect a note.”

“My fingers seem to,” Polly smiled.  “I’ll think I don’t know a piece, and then my hands go right along and play it.”

“I wish mine would,” laughed Mrs. Jocelyn.  “But I’ve let my music go too long; it will never come back.”  Her last tones were a little sad, but she quickly recovered her gayety.  “Suppose we think over now,” she proposed, “what you would like to purchase at the stores, and where we shall need to go.  Then we can the better map out our afternoon.”

Polly was all eagerness at once, and her hostess was no less interested.

“Are n’t there some new girls in the ward who have n’t any dolls?”

“Yes,” Polly answered, “there are five or six.  Let me see,” tapping off the names on her fingers, “there’s Mabel, and Stella, and Frederica, and Angiola, and Trotty,—­she’s only four,—­ and Mary Pender, and Ida Regan,—­she’s real pretty; that makes seven:  I think that’s all.”

“You shall choose a doll for each one of them.  You will know better than I just what will suit.”

“Oh, it will be such fun!” chuckled Polly.  “And you sure so good to do it!”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the little lady.  “I’m only being good to myself.  I have just begun to learn what money is for, and I am enjoying it—­for the first time in years!” A shadow stole over the wrinkled pink-and-white face; but a smile quickly chased it away.  “Now, my love, whose name shall head your list of especial friends?”

“I don’t know,” Polly hesitated.  “Do you mean children?”