“She is lovely,” said Polly. “It makes me feel good even to look at her.”
“Then be good, for her sake, darling,” said Nurse, suddenly stooping and kissing the bright, vivacious girl, and then bestowing another and tenderer kiss on the motherless baby. “She’s for all the world like Peace itself,” said Nurse. “There ain’t no sort of naughtiness or crossness in her.”
“Oh, she makes me feel good!” said Polly, hugging the little creature fondly to her side.
Two hours later Polly stood with her father’s arm round her neck: a slanting ray of sunlight was falling across the old faded carpet in the study, and mother’s eyes smiled out of their picture at Polly from the wall.
“You have been punished enough,” said the Doctor. “I have sent for you now just to say a word or two. You are a very young climber, Polly, but if this kind of thing is often repeated, you will never make any way.”
“I don’t understand you, father.”
The Doctor patted Polly’s curly head.
“Child,” he said, “we have all of us to go up mountains, and if you choose a higher one, with peaks nearer to the sky than others, you have all the more need for the necessary helps for ascent.”
“Father is always delightful when he is allegorical,” Polly had once said.
Now she threw back her head, looked full into his dearly-loved face, clasped his hands tightly in both her own, and said with tears filling her eyes, “I am glad you are going to teach me through a kind of story, and I think I know what you mean by my trying to climb the highest mountain. I always did long to do whatever I did a little better than any one else.”