“I do’ know!” Benedicta shook her head doubtfully. “I s’pose I ought not to go in opposition to your father, but it ain’t reasonable to think she will walk and be straight after all these years of idleness.” “She will be straight and she will walk,” Polly asserted smilingly. “Father knows what he says. He never makes a statement that he is not able to back up with results.” “Well”--Benedicta drew a long, doubtful breath--“if she ever should--but I don’t b’lieve she will!--it will be a real authentic miracle.” “It will seem so,” agreed Polly, “yet it is just such things that father is doing every day.” The housekeeper looked at her with unbelieving eyes. “Do you mean that your father has ever cured anybody that was like that little Ferne kid?” “A good many of them. You know about Doodles?” “No. What?” “When he was three or four years old he had a fall and could never walk a step afterwards until father operated upon him some six years ago.” “Well, that’s amazin’ly marvelous, of course; but they’ve taken that kid to piles of doctors, and every one of ’em said she couldn’t be cured.” “Yes,” smiled Polly. “And Doodles was examined by a famous New York surgeon just before father saw him; his verdict was that the case was utterly hopeless.” “He did! Sinners and snobs! Why in the universe don’t you do some braggin’? Bet I would, if it was my father.” The girl laughed. “I believe in him thoroughly,” she said. “That’s better than braggardism.” “My! but that’s a lovely word!” cried Benedicta. “Say it again, please; I never heard it.” Polly repeated it. “When I was a child,” she laughed, “I used to say ‘superbondonjical.’ Maybe that would suit you.” “Fine! What does it mean?” “I used it for anything that especially pleased me,” Polly replied. “All right,” returned Benedicta. “I think, then, that you are superbondonjical.” Clementina came to see what they were laughing at, and Polly took the opportunity to escape into the ward. She found Rosalind crying softly because a little toy dog which she had wound up refused to bark. Polly looked it over. “It is out of order,” she concluded. “That is the reason it doesn’t work.” Rosalind was thoughtful. “Daddy doesn’t work on Sunday,” she said. “Is he out of order?” Polly was about to explain, when the little one wailed out, “I want my daddy! I want to see my daddy!” It was the first time she had shown any sign of homesickness. For a moment Polly was at a loss for comforting words. She well knew that it would be a hard matter to persuade Mr. Wheatley to come up to the house. She was spared from speaking, however, for Clementina and Benedicta walked in. “What’s the matter?” inquired the latter. “I want--my daddy!--I want--my--dad-dy!” sobbed Rosalind. “You poor little kid!” crooned Benedicta. And gently pushing Polly aside she sat on the edge of the bed and held the child close. “Poor little kid!” The sobbing lessened, but still kept on.