Polly reached the window first. She could see the lights of an approaching automobile which, a moment later, stopped at the foot of their steps.
To her amazement her small brother, who had been at home but a few hours before, stepped out of the car with a suitcase in his hand. The next instant some one following ran in ahead of Billy.
Polly reached the front door in time to open it for their visitor; but, by this time the family was in the hall, and the figure swept by Polly to throw her arms about her mother’s neck.
“Mollie O’Neill, are you glad to see me? I have just traveled hundreds of miles until I am nearly dead. Yes, I know I ought to have telegraphed, but I’ve something I want to talk to you about and I did not want you to know I was coming. You might have tried to stop me, Richard did try.”
Then she stopped embracing Mrs. Webster and kissed Polly and Bettina and Dan and Mr. Webster—all as gaily and quickly as possible.
Of course it was Polly O’Neill—Mrs. Richard Burton—for no one else had such a fashion of turning up at unexpected moments.
“But, Tante, we have not even mentioned your scheme—your letter only arrived today,” Polly Webster said aloud.
Mrs. Webster shook her head and laughed at the same time.
“Of course you want to do something impossible, Polly O’Neill Burton, but I am glad to see you for any reason. It has been two years since you were here. Where did you find my Billy?”
A boy of about fourteen, small for his age and with fair hair and blue eyes, had by this time slipped quietly in and put down the suitcase. He had spoken to no one.