Polly went away directly, carrying the little rosewood box, after again expressing her grateful thanks to Mr. Bean.
Down in the office her tongue ran wild, until her mother was quite as excited as she. But there was a difference; Polly’s wondering thoughts flew straight to her lips, Mrs. Dudley’s stayed in her heart, restless and fearsome.
Next morning the injured man seemed no worse, though the physicians still had grave doubts of his recovery. Dr. Dudley, while appreciating Mr. Bean’s kind intentions towards Polly, and putting out of account the serious accident, grimly wished to himself that the little man had suffered the rosewood box to remain hidden in his wife’s bureau drawer. Of course, Polly was legally his own, yet these unknown relatives of hers,—with what convincing arguments might they confront him, arguments which he could not honestly refute! Yet he carried the box to the locksmith’s, and he conjectured cheerfully with Polly regarding the contents of the letter.
Late in the afternoon he put both box and key into Polly’s hands.
“Oh!” she squealed delightedly. “Have you opened it?”
“Most certainly not. That pleasure is left for you.”
She eagerly placed the key in the lock, and carefully raised the cover.
A folded tissue paper lay on top, which she caught up, and the photograph was disclosed.