“Why, yes, sir. I s’posed you knew. I’m Polly Dudley, Dr. Dudley’s little girl.”
“Are you! Well, Miss Polly, I am surely glad to have made your acquaintance.” He ran hurriedly through his pockets. “I had a card somewhere. Probably it was seized with the rest of my belongings. That seems to be a way they have at hospitals—hide a man’s things so he can’t get at them! Never mind, I haven’t forgotten my name. I am Floyd Westwood of New York.”
“That’s a lovelicious name,” Polly told him frankly.
The corners of his mouth curled up.
“I hope you will not fail to come often,” he told her, as she put her little hand in his for good-bye.
“Oh, I’ll come!” she promised. “But it’s father that will cure you.”
“I hope so, but,” he added soberly, “it doesn’t look much like it at present.”
Polly’s eyes went troubled.
Perhaps the other read her silence, for he said brightly:—