David flew out of the room, and Polly began to finger the precious letter.
“It’s thick,” she said; “but I don’t think there’s much writing inside. Yes,” she continued, “Flower is certainly very sensitive about father. She’s a dear girl. All the same, I’m sometimes jealous of her.”
“Oh, dear Polly! why?”
“Father thinks so much of her. Yes, I know it’s wrong, but I do feel a little sore now and then. Not often though, and never when I look into Flower’s lovely eyes.”
“She is very sweet with father,” said Helen. “It seems to me that during this past year she has given up her very life to him. And did you ever hear any one read better?”
“No, that’s one of the reasons why I’m devoured with jealousy. Don’t talk to me about it, it’s an enemy I haven’t yet learnt to overcome. Ah! here she comes.”
“And Fly, and the twins!” echoed Helen. “Here’s a letter from father, Flower. At least, we think so. It’s directed to us and to you.”
A tall, very fair girl, with soft, shining eyes, and a wonderful mane of yellow hair came up and put her arm round Polly’s neck. She did not smile, her face was grave, her voice shook a little.
“Open the letter, Helen,” she exclaimed impatiently.