Polly brought home other and apparently more useful articles than pink ribbons. One day it was some pretty boxes of tiny sheets of note-paper, with so many little envelopes, in the same delicate tint, that one might spoil two or three and still have enough left. At another time her purchases were two little washtubs, each big enough to hold a dolly’s frock, and--most charming of all--two little electric flatirons to make the dainty wardrobes smooth and beautiful. These had been suggested by Zulette Mardee’s sighing statement to her next-chair neighbor, that her beloved Theodora hadn’t “a single clean dress to her name,” and that nothing would make her so happy as to put them into the washtub. Grissel, the neighbor, had agreed with her perfectly, whereupon the succeeding day both little girls were in soapsuds up to their elbows, their small tables wet from end to end and spilling over, and their faces joyous as a June morning. “You are making yourself a lot of work,” commented a young nurse to Polly. “A lot of pleasure, you mean, don’t you?” returned the Doctor’s daughter. Miss Bartlett shrugged her small shoulders. “I’ll give you a week to find out,” she laughed. CHAPTER VI “MAYBE” The tiny girl sat in her pillowed chair by the window while the lady from the next street talked with Aunt Sophie. Mrs. Hamilton Garde wanted Aunt Sophie to go over to the great house where she lived and clean some walls and floors. Now they were haggling over the price, or, rather, Mrs. Hamilton Garde was haggling. The plump little woman who scrubbed for her neighbors never haggled. She quietly stated her price by the day or by the hour and let her patron talk. To-day the patron, being Mrs. Hamilton Garde, had argued and hinted and argued again for full seventeen minutes, and finally decided that even if twenty cents an hour was an unreasonably high price to pay, the work must be done and she should not feel justified in hiring somebody outside of the neighborhood. So she bade the little plump woman with red, big-jointed hands “to be sure and get over there and ready to work right on the notch”--which meant seven o’clock on Thursday morning. Long before this, the child had tired of the uninteresting talk, especially as she had heard the same thing many times over which always ended in the very same fashion. She was looking out of the window when Mrs. Hamilton Garde passed her on the way out. The baby-blue eyes were dwelling on the big, shining car in front of the little house. Mrs. Hamilton Garde noted the earnest look, and she asked sweetly: “Are you fond of motoring?” “Motoring?” repeated the little girl in a puzzled tone. Mrs. Hamilton Garde laughed in silvery tones, and simplified her question. “Do you like automobile riding?” “Oh!” cried the small voice. “No, ma’am--I mean, I guess I should. I never did, you know.”