Nothing was said to Polly about the boy's board, and this gave her an additional anxiety. He had now the appetite of a young convalescent who was rapidly gaining strength, and Polly watched his plate at mealtime with dismay in her heart. She would zealously try to curb her own appetite, but found it a difficult task, and finally, in desperation, she made a weightier decision, and then ate what she pleased and as much, as seemed proper for the short time that remained. For, at last, after days of argument with herself, when both sides of the question were, as she honestly believed, fairly dealt with, Polly concluded to write to Uncle Maurice. The time had been set for a Wednesday morning, but was postponed until afternoon, and then three o'clock came before Polly went about it. Chris had proposed going over to the convalescent ward for a little visit; but Polly was in no visiting mood, so she had allowed him to go alone. Slowly she mounted the stairs to her own room. Even now she was tempted to put off writing until to-morrow. Perhaps so long afterwards Uncle Maurice would not be ready to welcome her. But in her heart she knew this was false reasoning, and with a catch in her breath she sat down by her small writing desk, and pulled out paper and envelopes. It was some minutes before she started to write. DEAR UNCLE MAURICE,-- I thought when you were here and when I was in New York that I could never accept your invitation to come and live with you. But I have changed my mind--no, I have not exactly changed my mind, because I don't want to go as bad as ever-- "I'm afraid that isn't very polite," Polly thought ruefully, drew a deep sigh, and took a fresh sheet. DEAR UNCLE MAURICE,-- When you were here, last spring, I thought I could not ever come to live with you, but now it seems best for me to accept your invitation. Perhaps you don't want me by this time, and if you don't, please say so, because it won't make any difference to me--I mean I shall be glad not-- Polly stopped suddenly. That would never do. She put the sheet aside, and began anew. DEAR UNCLE MAURICE,-- I wonder if you still want me to come and live with you. Because if you do, I will-- At the fatal word, Polly's lip quivered, her pen turned, and a big splash of ink fell right in the middle of the fair page. She didn't care. There were other splashes, too. Tears were sprinkling the paper and blotting her lines. "Oh, I--can't go!--I can't!--I can't!" she sobbed softly. Presently she grew quiet, courage came back, determination strengthened. She began again to write. But tears brimmed her eyes and spoilt the letter once more. It was disheartening work. At last the sorry words were down, and Polly felt that all happiness for this world was over. "I hope I shall die quick," she said to herself. "Then I can go and live with mamma."