“No, dear, nobody objected, every one was very kind. Miss Collins even tried to persuade me to keep it a little longer, but I couldn’t do that, after I understood about the money.” “What money?” inquired Daisy, with deep interest. “My money, dear. It isn’t all gone, I am thankful to say, but the bank in Vermont, where I had several hundred dollars, failed the other day, and my lawyer has written me that I have been spending more than I realized these past three years. Of course I couldn’t run into debt, so the wisest plan seemed to be to sell----” Miss Polly paused abruptly, and put up her hand to shade her eyes. “You mean to sell the piano?” whispered Daisy, winking hard to keep back the sympathetic tears. “Oh, Miss Polly, and you loved it so.” There was a short silence, then Miss Polly spoke, and though her voice was not as bright as usual, it no longer trembled. “It seems a little hard just at first,” she said, with a faint smile, “but I shall get used to it in time, as I had to other things, that were even harder. It’s wonderful to find how kind and sympathetic people are. Why, would you believe it, my dear, that foolish Maggie actually cried when she was putting me to bed. I used to think her a little indifferent sometimes, but I see I was mistaken. My piano was a great pleasure, but I still have my books, and my dear little neighbors too. I shouldn’t like to have Tom hear of it, it would grieve him so much, but there isn’t any need of his ever knowing.” “He wouldn’t have let it happen if he had known,” cried Daisy. “Oh, dear Miss Polly, won’t you please write him about it? He’d be so unhappy if he ever found out.” Daisy’s voice was pleading, but Miss Polly shook her head resolutely. “My dear,” she said, gently, “you don’t understand. Some day Tom must know, of course, but not till things are a little easier for him. Miss Collins has been trying to persuade me to write, but I know better. I had a letter from Tom this morning; such a dear letter; I will read it to you.” As she spoke, Miss Polly drew from under her pillow a crumpled sheet of paper, covered with a firm, manly handwriting. “I think I could almost repeat it by heart,” she said, smoothing out the letter with loving fingers. “I keep all his letters, and read them over and over. This one isn’t very long, but the dear boy is so busy. It’s very good of him to take the time to write at all. Would you like to hear what he says?” Daisy said she would like it very much, and Miss Polly began to read in a voice that was still a little unsteady. “DEAR OLD POLLY: