know that she may be angry at the idea of your opposing her having this
European trip with Miss Adams. But she is not going. Mother is positive
and Polly will not do more than ask for permission since there is a
whole year more before her promise ends."

And Mollie slipped quietly away, grateful for the darkness and her old
friend's absorption.

In the hall, a few feet from the music room door, she encountered Polly
herself, with her eyes shining and her face aglow with the beauty and
fragrance of the April afternoon. And before she could slip past her
Polly's arms were about her, holding her fast, while she demanded,
"Whatever has happened to make you so white and miserable, Mollie
Mavourneen? Are you ill? If anyone has been unkind to you----"

But Mollie could only shake her head. "Don't be absurd; there is nothing
the matter. Billy Webster is here waiting to see you."

Nevertheless, a moment afterwards, when Polly had marched into the music
room and opened wide a shutter, her first words as she turned toward her
visitor were, "Billy Webster, what in the world have you said or done to
make Mollie so unhappy?"

CHAPTER II

The Wheel Revolves

It was midnight, yet Polly O'Neill had not gotten into bed.

Instead she sat before a tiny, dying fire in her own bedroom with her
hands clasped about her knees and her black hair hanging gypsy-fashion
over her crimson dressing gown. Mollie had gone to her own room several
hours before. In a moment there was a light knock at the door and Polly
had scarcely turned her head when her mother stood beside her.

Mrs. Wharton looked younger than she had several years before, absurdly
young to be the mother of two almost grown-up daughters! Her face had
lost the fatigue and strain of another spring evening, when Betty Ashton
had first hurried across the street to confide the dream of her Camp
Fire club to her dearest friends. Of course her hair was grayer and she
was a good deal less thin. Notwithstanding her eyes held the same soft
light of understanding that was so curiously combined with quiet
firmness.

"Why aren't you in bed, Polly mine?" she asked. "I saw that the gas was
shining or I should never have disturbed you."

In answer Polly without rising pushed a low rocking chair toward her
mother. "I wasn't sleepy. Is that the same reason that keeps you awake,
Mrs. Wharton?" she queried.

In all their lives together Polly O'Neill and her mother had always held