“Oh, yes, ma’am! Grandmother says it was the poor milk that we had when we lived in Stockville. Rosalind was just as healthy and strong as any baby until she began to drink that milk; but they didn’t know it then, and so we kept on living there. Grandmother says I began to be sick, too, and mother. They found out afterwards that the peddler put formaldehyde in it, and that poisoned her. Finally Rosalind got so bad--and didn’t walk at all when she ought to--that father woke up, grandmother says, and took her to the doctor; but nobody thought of the milk, and it wasn’t for a good while that they found out. Then it was too late. She had the rickets, you see, and after mother died father brought us up here. Then pretty soon he died, and we’ve been here ever since. Rosalind has had seven doctors, and grandmother and grandfather have got discouraged.” “I suppose it was malnutrition,” thought Polly aloud. “Yes,” responded the child, “that’s what it was--I remember, grandmother said so. Do you suppose you could cure her?” She went on, her eyes fixed on Polly’s face, hungry for a bit of hope. “I can do nothing, dear; my father has done wonderful things; but I don’t know about this. He is coming up here soon, and if your grandfather will allow it, we will try to arrange for him to see your sister.” “Oh, I’ll bring her up here!” cried the child. “I’ll bring her up if it takes all day! Oh, if he could only make her walk! I’d do anything for him if he would!” “You may tell your grandfather what I say, that I am sure father will see her if he wishes it. He would know whether she can be helped. I am not wise enough to be able to say anything about it.” The little girl shook her head sadly. “Grandfather wouldn’t like it if he knew I had come to see you,” she said. “I don’t dare tell him; but I’ll bring Rosalind up any time you say. She’s my sister, and I can do what I like. Benedicta Clapperton hasn’t anything to do with it!” A bitter shadow crossed the child’s face. Polly looked at her, surprised and questioning. “I mustn’t talk about her,” said the little girl, as if she had been asked to do so. “Grandfather said for me not to. But couldn’t I bring Rosalind up to see you without--without your housekeeper’s knowing it?” “Perhaps,” answered Polly. “Yet I think that father would have to see your grandfather or grandmother before he examined your sister.” “Then Rosalind can’t--ever walk,” wailed the little one softly, putting her arm across her eyes to hide her tears. “Oh, my dear!” cried Polly soothingly, “I think we can arrange it some way.” “No--we ca-n’t!” she sobbed. “Grandfather wouldn’t ever take Rosalind to where--Benedicta Clapperton is--I know he wouldn’t!” “Now, don’t you worry one bit about it,” comforted Polly, drawing the child to nestle within the circle of her arm. “It will all come out right--you see if it doesn’t.” “I’m afraid,” the little girl confessed.