This seemed somewhat doubtful to Polly, used as she was to enthusiastic responses.
"Won't it tire you?" she hesitated.
"I am always tired, little one. Perhaps the story will rest me."
"This I'll run right upstairs and get it," beamed Polly. "I guess I can read it better than I can tell it. You don't mind staying alone while I'm gone?"
"No, indeed!" was the reply, yet she sighed after Polly had disappeared. All the brightness of the room seemed to have vanished.
The little sad woman soon found herself watching for the light returning footfalls, and she greeted the child with a faint smile.
Polly read as she talked, naturally and with ease, and before she had finished the first page of the story her listener had settled herself comfortably among her pillows, a look of interest on her usually spiritless face.
It was a fanciful tale of a beautiful little prince who, by sowing seeds of the Wonderful White Flower of Love, transformed his father's kingdom, a country desolate from war and threatened by famine and insurrection, into a land of prosperity and peace and joy.
At the last word, Polly, flushed with the spirit of the story, looked up expectantly; but her listener's weary eyes seemed to be studying the pattern of the dainty comfort across her lap. Sadly Polly gathered together the scattered manuscript sheets, and waited.
"Thank you, dear," the little lady finally said; but the words were spoken as with an effort.