When Polly first saw "daddy" she was conscious of disappointment. The slight man with the cold black eyes and the hard-lined mouth did not tally with her thought of "the dearest that ever was." Yet his greeting was pleasant, and whenever he spoke to his little son a tenderness stole into his voice that made her regard him with more lenient eyes, and before her visit was over he proved himself so fascinating an entertainer, she went away feeling that the opinion of little Chris was not after all so very far from the truth. One night "daddy" did not appear, until the sick boy, who for hours had strained his ears for the step he loved, was in a state of agitation which the combined efforts of nurse and physician failed to calm. At last Polly was summoned, and although her arguments were not unlike those put forth by the others, they were made in such simple faith as to carry greater force. "He'd come if he was alive! I know he would!" the boy had been tearfully reiterating. "He must be dead--oh, daddy! daddy!" Polly entered in time to hear the last. She skipped straight to the cot. "Now, Chris, just listen to me! Your daddy isn't dead!" "How do you know?" he asked weakly. There was a touch of hope in the doubting tone. "Why, we'd have heard of it long before this, if he were," she reasoned rashly. "We might not," he objected. "Oh, yes, we should have!" she insisted. "Because everybody knows you're at the hospital, and they'd send word to father first thing." "They would, wouldn't they?" he brightened. "Of course," she returned confidently. "But why doesn't he come?" he persisted. "Oh, I don't know," she replied cheerfully. "Maybe he had to go away on business--father does sometimes, and can't stop for anything. But I wouldn't worry another bit, if I were you. When he comes and tells you all about it, you'll wonder why you didn't think it was all right--just as it is." Chris said nothing, only gazed into Polly's face, as if to gather even more assurance than her words had given him. "I'm going to tell you about a blizzard we had last winter," Polly went on, "when father went to New York and mother was sick, and I was all alone." Then, seeing she had her hearer's attention, she began the story of the well-remembered February day. Her voice was soft and soothing, and before the tale was half-told the sky-blue eyes closed and the tired little boy was asleep. This was well, as the messenger who had finally been sent to Mr. Morrow's boarding-place returned with the word that the man had not been there since early the previous day, and nobody knew where he had gone.