"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.