“I mustn’t talk about her,” said the little girl, as if she had been asked to do so. “Grandfather said for me not to. But couldn’t I bring Rosalind up to see you without—without your housekeeper’s knowing it?”
“Perhaps,” answered Polly. “Yet I think that father would have to see your grandfather or grandmother before he examined your sister.”
“Then Rosalind can’t—ever walk,” wailed the little one softly, putting her arm across her eyes to hide her tears.
“Oh, my dear!” cried Polly soothingly, “I think we can arrange it some way.”
“No—we ca-n’t!” she sobbed. “Grandfather wouldn’t ever take Rosalind to where—Benedicta Clapperton is—I know he wouldn’t!”
“Now, don’t you worry one bit about it,” comforted Polly, drawing the child to nestle within the circle of her arm. “It will all come out right—you see if it doesn’t.”
“I’m afraid,” the little girl confessed.
“Don’t be afraid. We won’t let Benedicta or anybody else stand in the way of your sister’s walking, if it is possible to effect a cure.”
The child drew a long breath. “You are good,” she said, “awful good; but you don’t know grandfather. He hates—oh, I mustn’t talk about it! What would he say if he knew! I must go now—they will think I’m lost. Bessie is waiting for me somewhere—I forgot all about them!”
“And you will bring Rosalind to see me?”