Richard Morrow was wise when in his extremity he turned to Dr. Dudley. The Doctor’s heart was big and always ready to open its door to anybody in distress of body or mind. Of course, little Chris stayed—at the hospital until he was strong again, then in the physician’s own home.
The lad grieved for his father, Polly often finding him in some obscure corner reading over with tears his latest note from “daddy.”
“I can’t make it seem right that he doesn’t come to see me just once,” he complained to Polly. “I should think he might get away from his business for a little tiny while,—ten minutes or so,—even if he went back on the next train. It isn’t a bit like daddy,—not a single bit!”
And Polly, able to understand it no better than he, would strive to comfort him.
Sometimes Mrs. Dudley wondered if, after all, it would not have been really kinder to tell the little lad the truth.
Nothing was said to Polly about the boy’s board, and this gave her an additional anxiety. He had now the appetite of a young convalescent who was rapidly gaining strength, and Polly watched his plate at mealtime with dismay in her heart. She would zealously try to curb her own appetite, but found it a difficult task, and finally, in desperation, she made a weightier decision, and then ate what she pleased and as much, as seemed proper for the short time that remained. For, at last, after days of argument with herself, when both sides of the question were, as she honestly believed, fairly dealt with, Polly concluded to write to Uncle Maurice.
The time had been set for a Wednesday morning, but was postponed until afternoon, and then three o’clock came before Polly went about it. Chris had proposed going over to the convalescent ward for a little visit; but Polly was in no visiting mood, so she had allowed him to go alone.
Slowly she mounted the stairs to her own room. Even now she was tempted to put off writing until to-morrow. Perhaps so long afterwards Uncle Maurice would not be ready to welcome her. But in her heart she knew this was false reasoning, and with a catch in her breath she sat down by her small writing desk, and pulled out paper and envelopes.
It was some minutes before she started to write.