“Why, we’d have heard of it long before this, if he were,” she reasoned rashly.
“We might not,” he objected.
“Oh, yes, we should have!” she insisted. “Because everybody knows you’re at the hospital, and they’d send word to father first thing.”
“They would, wouldn’t they?” he brightened.
“Of course,” she returned confidently.
“But why doesn’t he come?” he persisted.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied cheerfully. “Maybe he had to go away on business—father does sometimes, and can’t stop for anything. But I wouldn’t worry another bit, if I were you. When he comes and tells you all about it, you’ll wonder why you didn’t think it was all right—just as it is.”
Chris said nothing, only gazed into Polly’s face, as if to gather even more assurance than her words had given him.
“I’m going to tell you about a blizzard we had last winter,” Polly went on, “when father went to New York and mother was sick, and I was all alone.” Then, seeing she had her hearer’s attention, she began the story of the well-remembered February day.
Her voice was soft and soothing, and before the tale was half-told the sky-blue eyes closed and the tired little boy was asleep. This was well, as the messenger who had finally been sent to Mr. Morrow’s boarding-place returned with the word that the man had not been there since early the previous day, and nobody knew where he had gone.