Just how it all happened Dulcie and Daisy could never clearly recall, but in a very short space of time, they had gone into the house, passed the astonished Mary, and were seated in the parlor; the baby, once more restored to her mother’s lap, gazing about her, with an air of serene content, and uttering little crows and gurgles of satisfaction. Daisy’s first impulse had been to escape, but on second thought she decided that it would be cowardly to leave Dulcie alone, to take the consequences of whatever might be in store for them, so she stayed where she was, and, after all, there was nothing very alarming in the young man’s few words of explanation. “I received a letter a few days ago,” he began, as soon as they were all seated, and Mary, still very much puzzled, and not at all sure of the wisdom of admitting strangers in the absence of Mrs. Winslow and her daughter, had closed the front door. “It was signed Daisy Winslow, and the writer said she was a little girl who lived next door to my sister Miss Oliver.” “I wrote it,” said Daisy, desperately. “Are you Miss Polly’s brother?” “Yes, I am,” the young man answered, and he held out his hand with such a kind, friendly smile, that all Daisy’s fears melted away on the instant. “I want to thank you for telling me what you did in that letter, but I must ask a few more questions before seeing my sister. That is why we came here first. This is my wife, Mrs. Oliver.” “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve brought her,” cried Daisy, joyfully, “and the baby, too. Miss Polly will be so happy to see you all. She’s got your pictures, and she’s told us so much about you, and--and--oh, I am so glad, so glad!” Suddenly Daisy’s over-strained nerves gave way, and she began to cry. It was Mrs. Oliver who drew the trembling child down beside her on the sofa, and soothed and comforted her while her husband questioned Dulcie. The letter had been a great shock to him, he said; he had never dreamed that his sister was not perfectly well. Could Dulcie give him any particulars of the case? And Dulcie, only too glad to tell him dear Miss Polly’s story, told all she knew of the little cripple’s courage and unselfishness. The story lost nothing in the telling, and before it was finished Mrs. Oliver was crying softly, and there were tears in her husband’s eyes as well. “She’s the dearest, loveliest person,” finished Dulcie, with a catch in her voice, and Daisy added pleadingly: “You’re not angry with her, are you, Mr. Oliver?” “Angry,” repeated Miss Polly’s brother huskily, “no, indeed, how could I be? God bless her. It has been a wretched mistake, that’s all, and I am very much to blame for not having come to see her long before this, and found out for myself how matters were. I think we can go now, Helen; there doesn’t seem to be any more to hear.” But Mrs. Oliver looked a little doubtful.