Polly had been sitting alone on her small, private veranda which commanded a wonderful view of a rim of hills, when her sister's letter had been given her along with her other mail.
Before glancing at the other communications she had eagerly opened this. But now she sat with the pages fluttering in her lap and her eyes filled with tears.
Naturally Mollie had not intended to be so depressing; people seldom do seem to realize just what effects their letters may produce. Often they write merely to relieve their own feelings and once having put down all the gloomy possibilities that worry them at the time, rise up and go cheerfully about their business with the evils forgotten.
So naturally it remains for the unfortunate recipient of the letter to become even more depressed than the writer had been.
Moreover, Polly really wanted desperately to go home. It had been many months since she had seen her own people, and though they often believed her to have less affection than other women, it was not in the least true. She had given up many things for her art and had sometimes seemed selfish and cold-blooded. But it wasn't fair that her sister, Mollie, always seemed to think that she had never desired a home of her own, babies and some one to care for her supremely, that she had never grown tired of the wandering life her stage career forced her to lead.
Finally, however, Polly managed to smile and give a characteristic shrug over her own self-pity. There was nothing in the world so silly. Like the rest of us she knew this to be true, yet, like the rest of us, now and then even this famous, grown-up woman, who had most of the things that people would give worlds to possess, indulged in attacks of being sorry for herself. Moreover, the day before she had sent for her doctor and he had positively refused to consider her leaving Colorado for the present.
You may remember that Polly had a certain inherited delicacy that used to keep her mother uneasy, and lately it had troubled her. It was this fact she had concealed from her family and friends, so that now, though she was better, her physician had scouted the idea of a return East. Once near New York he was sure she would begin to talk business with her theatrical manager, or even undertake to study a new play.
No, she must undoubtedly remain at her post a while longer. And yet was it really necessary to have her post quite so lonely?
Just as this idea occurred to her, a slight noise attracting her attention, Polly glanced down into the garden below her veranda.
There stood Bobbin and the next moment she had flung a poor little bouquet at her feet. It was a strange offering, all prickly cactus leaves with a single white flower in their midst. For some absurd reason it flashed through Polly's mind to wonder if her offering could be in any way symbolic of the girl who had given it her. Could there be something beautiful hidden within the child's peculiarities?