“It pays pretty well, and it was the money I was looking for,” he laughed. “I knew a boy who took care of furnaces; but cooking is ever so much better. And you do know how to cook!” Polly wagged her head in approval. “It is well you think so,” he replied; “seeing you have to eat the cooking.” “By the way,” he went on, “my sub-conscious mind has just notified me of a neglected duty. While you were down in Overlook this forenoon Mr. Wheatley came to see his little granddaughter. He rode up with the grocer.” “Oh, did he!” cried Polly. “Rosalind must have been delighted.” “Yes, but you should have seen her grandfather. He was almost beside himself to find how much she had improved. Is she really expected to walk at the end of two years?” “Father thinks she will.” There was a moment of tense silence. Then the man asked, in lowered tone, “Has Dr. Dudley ever said whether there was any chance for Dorothy?” This was what Polly had dreaded the first time he was at Overlook; but he had not asked the question. Now it had come. She could not bear to hurt him. Her eyes misted, and she looked away. “Yes,” she answered slowly, “he told me that before he saw her he thought there might be help; afterwards--” A tear escaped its bound, and her hand sought to hide it. “Of course, it couldn’t be,” he said quickly. “I didn’t need to ask.” “Oh, why must there be such hard things in the world!” broke out Polly impulsively. “Even as it is, she is happier than most children.” “I know, still--” She did not go on; and he spoke brightly. “Little Miss Rosalind Ferne told me to-day that I was extravagant.” “Extravagant!” Polly’s forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “She asked me what I was going to have for dinner, and I told her I intended to fricassee three chickens. ‘Dear me!’ she said, ‘fricassee means all cut up, doesn’t it?’ I told her it did. ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘I’m sorry, for I do like to see a bird on the table, and I think you’re pretty extravagant with your ammunition.’” Polly laughed. “She does make droll speeches.” “Yes, she has strange thoughts. This morning I overheard the children talking, and Rosalind said, ‘What pretty hills those are--the ’way-off ones! I wish I knew who made them.’ Dorothy spoke up. ‘Why, Rosalind, don’t you know? God made them.’--‘Who made the sunshine?’--‘God made it,’ Dorothy answered.--‘Who made the stars?’ went on Rosalind.--‘God. He made everything. He made the whole world.’ For a moment Rosalind was silent; then she asked, in quite a now-I’ve-got-you tone, ‘Well, who made God?’ But Dorothy was ready. ‘Nobody made Him,’ she replied. ‘He has lived always. There never was a time when He didn’t live.’ They were quiet for a little. Then Rosalind responded in a rather weary tone, ‘My, He must be healthy!’ “I thought they’d laugh; but not a sound! So I peeped in. There they sat, solemn as little owls. Nobody had seen anything funny about that!”