Dr. Dudley’s entrance put a stop to the talk, and presently Polly said good-bye, carrying away with her a happy picture of Moses Cohn’s protégé.
When Polly first saw “daddy” she was conscious of disappointment. The slight man with the cold black eyes and the hard-lined mouth did not tally with her thought of “the dearest that ever was.” Yet his greeting was pleasant, and whenever he spoke to his little son a tenderness stole into his voice that made her regard him with more lenient eyes, and before her visit was over he proved himself so fascinating an entertainer, she went away feeling that the opinion of little Chris was not after all so very far from the truth.
One night “daddy” did not appear, until the sick boy, who for hours had strained his ears for the step he loved, was in a state of agitation which the combined efforts of nurse and physician failed to calm.
At last Polly was summoned, and although her arguments were not unlike those put forth by the others, they were made in such simple faith as to carry greater force.
“He’d come if he was alive! I know he would!” the boy had been tearfully reiterating. “He must be dead—oh, daddy! daddy!”
Polly entered in time to hear the last. She skipped straight to the cot.
“Now, Chris, just listen to me! Your daddy isn’t dead!”
“How do you know?” he asked weakly. There was a touch of hope in the doubting tone.