“No, you haven’t; but won’t you tell me now, please?”
“Father and mother adopted me the day they were married,” she explained simply. “Papa and mamma were dead, and I didn’t belong to Aunt Jane or anybody.”
“Polly, who was your father—your own father?” The words tumbled close on the heels of her sentence.
“Chester May,” she answered dazedly. Something was imminent. She knew not what.
“Chester May! And your mother’s name? Was it Illingworth? Phebe Illingworth?” The words shot like bullets.
“Why, yes!” gasped Polly. “How did you know?”
“Polly! Polly!” He thrust out his hands—they touched Polly’s, which he caught in a strong grip. “My mother was your father’s sister, his eldest sister! We are cousins, Polly, own cousins!”
Dr. Dudley came, with the nurse, before the story was ended, and then it had to be begun and told all over again,—the old, old story of a quarrel between the father and the “baby” of his family, of the hasty leaving home of the boy, of the meagre news of his early marriage, and lastly of the years that were empty of tidings. These Polly was able to fill up in part, when the story-teller turned listener, with interest almost as great as Polly’s own.
Floyd Westwood begged the physician to allow him one little glimpse of his new-found cousin; but Dr. Dudley was firm, and the eager eyes were not uncovered. Polly soon slipped away to share her joy with her mother, leaving the Doctor and his patient to talk over present plans and future possibilities.