Here poor Helen burst into fresh sobs herself.
“I think,” she added, choking as she spoke, “that was what quite broke Polly down—losing mother, and losing faith in your power at the same time.”
“I am glad you told me this, Helen,” said Dr. Maybright, quietly. “This alters the case. In a measure I can now set Polly’s heart at rest. I will see her presently.”
“Presently” did not mean that day, nor the next, nor the next, but one beautiful summer’s evening just when the sun was setting, and just when its long low western rays were streaming into the lattice-window of the pretty little bower bed-room where Polly lay on her white bed, Dr. Maybright opened the door and came in. He was a very tall man, and he had to stoop as he passed under the low, old-fashioned doorway, and as he walked across the room to Polly’s bedside the rays of the setting sun fell on his face, and he looked more like a beautiful healing presence than ever to the child. She was lying on her back, with her eyes very wide open; her face, which had been bright and round and rosy, had grown pale and small, and her tearless eyes had a pathetic expression. She started up when she saw her father come in, gave a glad little cry, and then, remembering something, hid her face in her hands with a moan.
Dr. Maybright sat down in the chair which Helen had occupied the greater part of the day. He did not take any notice of Polly’s moan, but sat quite still, looking out at the beautiful, glowing July sunset. Wondering at his stillness, Polly presently dropped her hands from her face, and looked round at him. Her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to fill.
“If I were you, Polly,” said the doctor, in his most matter-of-fact and professional manner, “I would get up and come down to tea. You are not ill, you know. Trouble, even great trouble, is not illness. By staying here in your room you are adding a little to the burden of all the others. That is not necessary, and it is the last thing your mother would wish.”
“Is it?” said Polly. The tears were now brimming over in her eyes, but she crushed back her emotion. “I didn’t want to get up,” she said, “or to do anything right any more. She doesn’t know—she doesn’t hear—she doesn’t care.”
“Hush, Polly—she both knows and cares. She would be much better pleased if you came down to tea to-night. I want you, and so does Helen, and so do the other girls and the little boys. See, I will stand by the window and wait, if you dress yourself very quickly.”
“Give me my pocket-handkerchief,” said Polly. She dashed it to her eyes. No more tears flowed, and by the time the doctor reached the window he heard a bump on the floor; there was a hasty scrambling into clothes, and in an incredibly short time an untidy, haggard-looking, but now wide-awake, Polly stood by the doctor’s side.
“That is right,” he said, giving her one of his quick, rare smiles.