She followed Mrs. Flinders into the kitchen, which was also the sitting-room, and saw the little white face which she hoped to make smile, languidly looking out on the glimpse of the world allowed the child by the enormous chintz arm-chair, with its extended side-pieces, in which she was very nearly swallowed up. A long, thin, little hand came out from the plaid shawl enveloping Maimie and waved feebly to Rob, while a piping voice cried: "Oh, Rob Grey, I'm awful glad to see you!" "That's right," cried Rob, running over to give the child a hug. "So you should be, because I'm glad to see you, though I'm not one bit glad to see you ill. But, you see! I always told you they ought to call you Polly, and not Maimie--because it was 'little _Polly_ Flinders sat among the cinders, warming her pretty little toes.' And if you're not among the cinders, you're close to the stove, Pollykins! But we're certain sure you're not the real Polly Flinders, in Mother Goose, because 'her mother came and caught her, and whipped her little daughter, for spoiling her nice new clothes.' That can't happen to you, you know, because you've got on your wrapper!" The child laughed out. "You're funny, Rob," she said, stroking Rob's cheek. "And you're funny, Polly; as funny as a fiddler-crab, with this big chair high up above your head, and your thin little face peering out! What do you play all day--do you play you're a little turtle and this is your shell?" laughed Rob, her heart full of pity for the wan little creature. "Nothin'," said Polly. "I don't play nothin'; I just sit an' sit." "Read?" hinted Rob. Polly shook her head. "I can't read fast, 'cause I didn't go to school much, an' it makes me awful tired." "Well, now, reading is hard work, because they won't stop writing books long enough to let us catch up," laughed Rob. "I've been telling stories, telling them to lots of little children, and we do have the most fun!" "Father told about that," cried Polly eagerly. "He said 'twas queer folks paid to hear 'em, but I know! You've told me stories, an' I know! I wish I could be there when you tell 'em, but father wouldn't get a ticket, not ever." "What does the doctor say about Polly, Mrs. Flinders?" asked Rob, who had been forming her own unprofessional opinion, and deciding that poor little Polly was dying of pure dreariness. "He says she ain't any stamina, an' he's afraid she'll go like the rest. He says she don't seem to have any real disease, but too much Flinders--you know Dr. Fairbairn, an' the way he says things. I guess he means she'll go like the rest," said Mrs. Flinders, apparently oblivious to Polly's intense gaze. Rob thought that she did indeed "know Dr. Fairbairn," and read in his diagnosis of "too much Flinders" confirmation of her own judgment on poor Polly. The mite looked so frightened at the prospect of "going like the others" that Rob was divided between pity for the shrinking child and wondering wrath at her obtuse mother.