"Oh, I'm dreadfully ashamed!" she exclaimed when she found it out.
"I've slept almost this whole day!"
Mother Fisher smiled, "And it's the best day's work you've done in one long while, Polly," she said.
"And here's my girl, Polly," cried Grandpapa, when she ran down to him, and holding her at arm's length, he gazed into her bright eyes and on her rosy cheeks. "Well, well, your mother's a clever woman, and no mistake."
So Polly knew if she didn't take care and not get tired again, she would be tucked into bed another fine day.
It was a long summer morning, and they were sailing up the Rhine, with the delights of Brussels and Cologne behind them, and in between the covers of the purple book, No. 4, Polly had been looking at ruined castles and fortresses, at vine-clad terraces, and châlets, until she turned to Grandpapa with a sigh.
"Tired, Polly, little woman?" he said, cuddling her up against him.
"No, not tired, Grandpapa," said Polly, "but, oh, there's so very much of it over here in Europe."
"If you've found that out, you've learned the lesson early," said old Mr. King, with a laugh. "As many times as I've been over here, there's nothing that surprises me so much as the presumption with which we travellers all rush about, expecting to compass all there is."
"But we ought to see everything," said Polly, "oughtn't we, Grandpapa, when we've come so far to see it?" and she looked troubled.
"There's just where you are wrong, Polly, child," said old Mr. King. "And this 'ought to see,' why, it's an old dragon, Polly, lying in wait to destroy. Don't you let it get hold of you, but take my advice and see only what you can make your own and remember. Then you've got it."