“I’ll tell you what you might do,” broke in Maggie, who was almost as much excited as the children themselves. “The room next Miss Polly’s is vacant just now. You might all come up, and you and the gentleman wait there, while the children take the baby in.” This suggestion was eagerly adopted, and the whole party proceeded up-stairs. As they climbed flight after flight, the little girls noticed that Miss Polly’s brother grew very grave and silent, and when they reached the top floor, he gave the baby to Dulcie, without a word. There was a moment of breathless anxiety lest baby Oliver should spoil everything by beginning to cry, but she was--as her mother frequently informed her friends--a remarkably amiable child and although she looked a little surprised at being transferred from her father’s arms to those of a stranger, she made no protest, and the next moment had seized one of Dulcie’s long braids, with a crow of delight. How the children’s hearts beat, as they knocked at Miss Polly’s door, and turned the handle, in answer to her gentle “Come in.” The invalid was not in bed, but in her wheel-chair, engaged in darning stockings, but at sight of her little visitors, and the baby in Dulcie’s arms, she dropped her stocking, with a little cry of surprise and pleasure. “A baby! how adorable! Oh, my dears, where did it come from? Whose baby is it?” “She belongs to some people we know,” faltered Dulcie. “We asked if we might bring her to see you. We knew you loved babies.” “Indeed I do love them. What a little beauty. Do you think she would be frightened if you gave her to me, just for a minute?” “I don’t think she would,” said Dulcie; “she let me take her, and she doesn’t seem shy.” Miss Polly held out her arms, and Dulcie put the smiling, crowing baby into them, and with a little cooing sound the invalid cuddled the child to her heart. “Oh, the darling,” she murmured, “the precious little darling! That’s right, put your head down on my shoulder. You know I love babies, don’t you? What is her name, Dulcie?” “Her name is--is Mary,” gasped Dulcie, who was finding considerable difficulty in keeping the tremor out of her voice. “Mary,” repeated Miss Polly, softly; “that is my little niece’s name, but they call her Polly.” “They call this one Polly, too,” said Daisy, coming to her sister’s relief, “at least we think they do. We don’t know her father and mother very well. We never saw them till this morning.” Daisy was very much embarrassed, but Miss Polly was too much absorbed in the baby to notice anything unusual in her manner. “Look at her dimples,” she cried, admiringly, “and her hair is going to curl beautifully when she is a little older.” “She likes you; she’s patting your cheek,” cried Daisy, joyfully. “Oh, Miss Polly dear, wouldn’t you love to have her all the time--to live in the same house, I mean?” Miss Polly smiled rather sadly.