"Thanks, Rob," said Wythie, quietly. "We know the poem."
The little procession of three filed down the narrow stairs, stepping slowly and carefully in the dusk. The house was absolutely still; Prue had evidently not come in, and perhaps Polly had fallen asleep with Hortense, Wythie suggested.
There was a faint glow in the dining-room from the fire burning low on the hearth. By its light they saw Mr. Grey lying on the couch as they had left him, and Polly's little figure drooping over Hortense in her arms, sound asleep in Prue's outgrown chair.
"The palace of the Sleeping Beauty," whispered Rob, thinking it a pretty picture.
"I can't bear to disturb your father, but we must get tea," whispered her mother back.
Wythie struck a light and Polly stirred, straightened herself, looked, startled, around the room, and then smiled at Rob.
"I didn't know where I was," she said, running to her idol. "Your father woke up and said something quick, and I woke up, too, but when I went to him he was asleep, so then Hortense and I went to sleep again."
"What did papa say, Polly?" asked Wythie, with a sudden fear.
Her mother had crossed to the couch, and knelt beside it. She took her husband's face in her hands, and something in her attitude brought her girls to her instantly. Mrs. Grey laid the beloved head back on the pillow and raised her face to Wythie and Rob without a sound.
"Mardy!" cried the girls together, dropping on their knees beside her.