In the evening Polly had her interview with her father. Dr. Maybright had gone through a long and fatiguing day; some anxious cases caused him disquiet, and his recent sorrow lay heavily against his heart. How was the father of seven daughters, and two very scampish little sons, to bring them up alone and unaided? How was a man’s own heart to do without the sympathy to which it had turned, the love which had strengthened, warmed, and sustained it? Dr. Maybright was standing by the window, looking out at the familiar garden, which showed shadowy and indistinct in the growing dusk, when Polly crept softly into the room, and, going up to his side, laid her pretty dimpled hand on his arm.
“Now, father,” she said, eagerly, “about the housekeeping? I’m all prepared—shall we go into the subject now?”
Dr. Maybright sighed, and with an effort roused himself out of a reverie which was becoming very painful.
“My little girl,” he said, pushing back the tumbled hair from Polly’s sunshiny face. Then he added, with a sudden change of manner, “Oh, what a goose you are, Polly—you know as much about housekeeping as I do, and that is nothing at all.”
“I wouldn’t make bold assertions,” replied Polly, saucily—“I wouldn’t really, father dear; I couldn’t cure a sick person, of course not, but I could make a very nice cake for one.”
“Well, let’s go into the matter,” said the Doctor moving to his study table. “I have a quarter of an hour to give you, my dear, then I want to go into the village to see Mrs. Judson before she settles for the night; she has a nasty kind of low fever about her, and her husband is anxious, so I promised to look in. By the way, Polly, don’t any of you go nearer the Judsons’ house until I give you leave; walk at the other side of the village, if you must go there at all. Now, my dear, about this housekeeping. Are you seriously resolved to force your attentions upon us for a week? We shall certainly all be most uncomfortable, and severe attacks of indigestion will probably be the result. Is your heart set on this, Polly, child? For, if so—well, your mother never thwarted you, did she?”
“No, father, never—but don’t talk of mother, for I don’t think I can bear it. When I was with mother somehow or other, I don’t know why, I, never wished for anything she did not like.”
“Just so, my dear child. Turn up the lamp, if you please, Polly—sit there, will you—I want to see your face. Now I will reply to the first part of your last remark. You asked me not to speak of your mother, my dear; I certainly will mention her name to her children. She has gone away, but she is still one with us. Why should our dearest household word be buried? Why should not her influence reach you and Helen and Dolly from where she now is? She is above—she has gone into the higher life, but she can lead you up. You understand me, Polly. Thoughts of your mother must be your best, your noblest thoughts from this out.”
“Yes, father, yes,” said Polly. Her lips were trembling, her eyes were brimful, she clasped and unclasped her hands with painful tension.
Dr. Maybright bent forward and kissed her on her forehead.