‘Prithee, Polly Oliver, why bide ye so still? Pretty Polly Oliver, we fear you are ill. I’m singing ’neath thy window, when night dews are chill, For, pretty Polly Oliver, we hear you are ill.’ She was about to despatch Master Jack to his tent with a round scolding, when the last words of the song were frozen on his lips by the sound of a smothered sob, in place of the saucy retort he hoped to provoke. The unexpected sob frightened him more than any fusilade of hot words, and he stole away in the darkness more crestfallen than he had been for many a year. Mrs. Winship, more troubled than ever, pulled apart the canvas curtains, and stood in the opening, silently. The sight of the forlorn little figure, huddled together on the straw bed, touched her heart, and, when Polly started up with an eloquent cry and flew into her extended arms, she granted willing forgiveness, and the history of the afternoon was sobbed out upon her motherly shoulder. The next morning Mrs. Winship announced that Polly was better, sent breakfast to her tent, and by skilful generalship drove everybody away from the camp but Elsie, who brought Polly to the sitting-room, made her comfortable on the lounge, and, administering much good advice to Margery and Bell concerning topics to be avoided, admitted them one by one into her presence, so that she gradually regained her self-control. And at the dinner-table a very pale Polly was present again, with such a white face and heavy eyes that no one could doubt there had been a headache, while two people, at least, knew that there had been a heartache as well. The next day’s mail carried the following letter to Laura Burton: CAMP CHAPARRAL, _August_ 16, 188—.