-lined mouth did not
tally with her thought of "the dearest that ever was." Yet his
greeting was pleasant, and whenever he spoke to his little son a
tenderness stole into his voice that made her regard him with more
lenient eyes, and before her visit was over he proved himself so
fascinating an entertainer, she went away feeling that the opinion of
little Chris was not after all so very far from the truth.

One night "daddy" did not appear, until the sick boy, who for hours
had strained his ears for the step he loved, was in a state of
agitation which the combined efforts of nurse and physician failed to
calm.

At last Polly was summoned, and although her arguments were not unlike
those put forth by the others, they were made in such simple faith as
to carry greater force.

"He'd come if he was alive! I know he would!" the boy had been
tearfully reiterating. "He must be dead--oh, daddy! daddy!"

Polly entered in time to hear the last. She skipped straight to the
cot.

"Now, Chris, just listen to me! Your daddy isn't dead!"

"How do you know?" he asked weakly. There was a touch of hope in the
doubting tone.

"Why, we'd have heard of it long before this, if he were," she
reasoned rashly.

"We might not," he objected.

"Oh, yes, we should have!" she insisted. "Because everybody knows
you're at the hospital, and they'd send word to father first thing."

"They would, wouldn't they?" he brightened.

"Of course," she returned confidently.

"But why doesn't he come?" he persisted.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied cheerfully. "Maybe he had to go away
on business--father does sometimes, and can't stop for anything. But I
wouldn't worry another bit, if I were you. When he comes and tells you
all about it, you'll wonder why you didn't think it was all
right--just as it is."

Chris said nothing, only gazed into Polly's face, as if to gather
even more assurance than her words had given him.

"I'm going to tell you about a blizzard we had last winter," Polly
went on, "when father went to New York and mother was sick, and I was
all alone." Then, seeing she had her hearer's attention, she began the
story of the well-remembered February day.

Her voice was soft and soothing, and before the tale was half-told the
sky-blue eyes closed and the tired little boy was asleep. This was
well, as the messenger who had finally been sent to Mr. Morrow's
boarding-place returned with the word that the man had not been there
sinc