Rosalind Ferne improved daily, and the gain was not microscopic. Even Benedicta spoke of it.
“That Ferne kid’s comin’ up,” she said.
“Isn’t she!” exulted Polly.
“She’ll never walk,” the housekeeper went on, “it’s against nature; but she’ll get stronger and healthier. She won’t go through life so puny.”
“Or crooked,” added Polly.
“I do’ know!” Benedicta shook her head doubtfully. “I s’pose I ought not to go in opposition to your father, but it ain’t reasonable to think she will walk and be straight after all these years of idleness.”
“She will be straight and she will walk,” Polly asserted smilingly. “Father knows what he says. He never makes a statement that he is not able to back up with results.”
“Well”—Benedicta drew a long, doubtful breath—“if she ever should—but I don’t b’lieve she will!—it will be a real authentic miracle.”
“It will seem so,” agreed Polly, “yet it is just such things that father is doing every day.”
The housekeeper looked at her with unbelieving eyes. “Do you mean that your father has ever cured anybody that was like that little Ferne kid?”