POLLY O'NEILL was on her sister's front porch reading a letter from Doctor Sylvia Wharton. It was now spring time.
Sylvia had written that Bobbin was getting on at school in the most amazing fashion. Not only could she now pronounce Polly's name but hundreds of others, and she could certainly hear better than she had several months before.
Nevertheless, Polly let the letter slide out of her hand and the tears came to her eyes. She was not sad, however, only so extremely glad for Bobbin's sake and for her own.
"After all, perhaps I am not so entirely selfish a human being as some persons believe me," she announced to herself with a shrug of her shoulders. "For at least one little girl in this world does not think so, and never shall."
Then Polly closed her eyes and fell to dreaming. She was not really asleep, only resting. She had had rather a hard struggle after Mollie's fire and her own unfortunate part in it. That wretched cold she had taken settled on her lungs immediately afterwards and she was now only strong enough to lead an ordinary existence. There was no thought of her acting again until the next fall.
She was not yet feeling particularly vigorous, so now although she plainly heard the sound of a man's footsteps approaching the veranda, she made no effort to open her eyes. It was probably Billy or one of his farm men. If a question should be asked of her then would come the time for answering it.
Nevertheless, she had not expected that the man would walk deliberately up to her and then stand in front of her without saying a word.
Miss O'Neill felt annoyed and her cheeks flamed with the two bright spots of color always characteristic of her. Notwithstanding, she opened her eyes coldly and calmly, haughtily she hoped.
The intruder did not flinch. He merely continued gazing at her and still without speaking.
But Polly's flush burned deeper, although she also said nothing.