She felt it was impossible to describe to Polly the skilful tenderness with which he had tended Roy; the pleasant cordiality which had evaded awkwardness, the exquisite sympathy that dealt only with present suffering; no, it could only be stored sacredly in her memory, as a thing never to be forgotten.
The girl drooped her head as Mildred spoke.
'I am finding out more every day what he is, but one will never come to the bottom of his goodness,' she said, humbly. 'Aunt Milly, I feel more and more how unworthy I am of him,' and she rested her head against Mildred and wept.
There was a weary ring in Mildred's voice as she answered her.
'He would not like to hear you speak so despairingly of his choice; you must make yourself worthy of him, dear Polly.'
'I will try—I do try, till I get heart-sick over my failures. I know when he is disappointed, or thinks me silly; he gives me one of his quiet looks that seem to read one through and through, and then all my courage goes. I do so long to tell him sometimes that he must be satisfied with me just as I am, that I shall never get wiser or better, that I shall always be Polly, and nothing more.'
'Only his precious little Heartsease!'
'No,' she returned, sighing, 'I fear that has gone too. I feel so sore and unhappy about all this. Does he—does Roy know I am here?'
'No, no, not yet; he is hardly strong enough to bear any excitement. It will be very dull for you, my child, for you will not even have my company.'
'Oh, I shall not mind it—not much, I mean,' returned Polly, stoutly.