The only place, except in front of the grand piano, where Polly approached a state of comparative happiness, was in the greenhouse.
Here she would stay, comforted and soothed among the lovely plants and rich exotics, rejoicing the heart of Old Turner the gardener, who since Polly's first rapturous entrance, had taken her into his good graces for all time.
Every chance she could steal after practice hours were over, and after the clamorous demands of the boys upon her time were fully satisfied, was seized to fly on the wings of the wind, to the flowers.
But even with the music and flowers the dancing light in the eyes went down a little; and Polly, growing more silent and pale, moved around with a little droop to the small figure that had only been wont to fly through the wide halls and spacious rooms with gay and springing step.
“Polly don't like us,” at last said Van one day in despair. “Then, dear,” said Mrs. Whitney, “you must be kinder to her than ever; think what it would be for one of you to be away from home even among friends.”
“I'd like it first rate to be away from Percy,” said Van, reflectively; “I wouldn't come back in three, no, six weeks.”
“My son,” said his mamma, “just stop and think how badly you would feel, if you really couldn't see Percy.”
“Well,” said Van, and he showed signs of relenting a little at that; “but Percy is perfectly awful, mamma, you don't know; and he feels so smart too,” he said vindictively.
“Well,” said Mrs. Whitney, softly, “let's think what we can do for Polly; it makes me feel very badly to see her sad little face.”
“I don't know,” said Van, running over in his mind all the possible ways he could think of for entertaining anybody, “unless she'd like my new book of travels—or my velocipede,” he added.