“I can do anything I make up my mind to,” he said. “I’d rather do ’most anything than not be allowed to go and see Miss Polly again. I’ve thought of lots of interesting things to tell her. I’m sure she’d like to hear about our telephone.” “What’s a telephone?” inquired Molly, who had never heard the word before. “Oh, it’s a wonderful thing. It’s like a speaking tube, only you have to ring a bell, and then you hear a voice asking what number you want, and you say, and if it’s the number of your father’s office, and he’s there, he answers you. Not many people have telephones in their houses yet, but we have one, and Father says he wouldn’t be surprised if some day everybody had them, and you would be talking from New York to Boston, just as easy as you call down to Bridget through the tube.” This last announcement was almost too great a strain on politeness. “Of course you’re just making up a story,” said Daisy, while Molly and Maud giggled derisively. “You couldn’t possibly hear your father’s voice when he was down-town in his office and you were at home.” “I can, too,” maintained Paul. “If you ever come to Boston I’ll show you. Maybe there are some telephones in New York, but I’m not sure. Father says Boston is generally ahead of other places.” Molly and Maud still looked unconvinced, and even Daisy would have liked to argue the point, but Dulcie, who felt that Paul was entitled to a great deal of consideration that evening, hastened to change the subject. “Let’s talk some more about Miss Polly,” she said rather hurriedly. “Did you see that photograph of her brother on the bureau? I think he has a very kind face.” So no more was said on the subject of telephones, and in a short time Mary appeared with the five bowls of bread and milk. The evening that followed seemed unusually long. It was impossible to settle down to reading or playing games, with the awful shadow of castor oil hanging over them. “I wish Grandma would hurry up and give it to us,” complained Molly. “Things aren’t as bad when they really happen as when you’re expecting them.” Daisy shuddered. “Let’s think about something else,” she said. “Read ‘Little Men,’ Dulcie. Perhaps we’ll get so much interested we’ll forget about the oil.” Dulcie consented, but even the fascination of Miss Alcott’s charming story was powerless to drive away unpleasant anticipations, and when at eight o’clock Grandma’s familiar footstep was heard ascending the stairs, the five little faces were very pale and troubled. But though Paul was pale, he was resolute. Not once did his courage fail, and when his turn came, he swallowed the disagreeable dose without a murmur. “I had no idea I should grow so fond of Paul,” remarked Dulcie to Daisy, when they were all in bed. “I’m glad we told him about Miss Polly. I know she loved hearing him sing.” “Paul is a very nice boy,” agreed Daisy, “but I’m afraid he doesn’t always tell the truth. That thing about the telephone couldn’t possibly be true.”