Part II Chapter 19 Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade
ONE YEAR AFTER
“Helen, here’s a letter.”
“Yes. Who is it for?”
“I think it’s for us all. See: ‘the Misses Maybright and Miss Dalrymple.’”
“Well, where’s Flower? We can’t open it till Flower comes down. It must be—yes, it must be about father! You know it was yesterday his eyes were to be operated on.”
“As if I didn’t know it, Nell! I never closed my eyes last night. I felt nearly as bad as that awful day a year ago now. I wish I might tear open this envelope. Where is Flower? Need we wait for her?”
“It would be unkind not to wait! No one feels about father as Flower does.”
“David, please call her this instant!”
David flew out of the room, and Polly began to finger the precious letter.
“It’s thick,” she said; “but I don’t think there’s much writing inside. Yes,” she continued, “Flower is certainly very sensitive about father. She’s a dear girl. All the same, I’m sometimes jealous of her.”
“Oh, dear Polly! why?”
“Father thinks so much of her. Yes, I know it’s wrong, but I do feel a little sore now and then. Not often though, and never when I look into Flower’s lovely eyes.”
“She is very sweet with father,” said Helen. “It seems to me that during this past year she has given up her very life to him. And did you ever hear any one read better?”
“No, that’s one of the reasons why I’m devoured with jealousy. Don’t talk to me about it, it’s an enemy I haven’t yet learnt to overcome. Ah! here she comes.”
“And Fly, and the twins!” echoed Helen. “Here’s a letter from father, Flower. At least, we think so. It’s directed to us and to you.”
A tall, very fair girl, with soft, shining eyes, and a wonderful mane of yellow hair came up and put her arm round Polly’s neck. She did not smile, her face was grave, her voice shook a little.
“Open the letter, Helen,” she exclaimed impatiently.
“Don’t tremble so, Flower,” said Polly.
But she herself only remained quiet by a great effort, as Helen unfastened the thick envelope, opened the sheet of paper, and held it up for many eager pairs of eyes to read:
“My Children:—I see again, thank God.
“Your Father and loving Friend.”
“There!” said Polly. “Oh, I can’t talk about it. Flower, you are silly to cry. Will no one dance a hornpipe with me? I’ll choke if I don’t laugh. You’re the one to dance, Fly. Why, you are crying, too. Ridiculous! Where’s the letter? Let’s kiss it all round. That’ll make us better. His own blessed writing! Isn’t he a darling? Was there ever such a father?”
“Or such a friend?” exclaimed Flower. “I said long ago, and I say again now, that he’s the best man in the world, and I do really think that some day he’ll turn me into a good girl.”
“Why, you’re the nicest girl I know now,” said Polly.
And then they kissed each other.
THE END