"
That settled the question of Polly's tears, and she began to laugh
hysterically, while the others joined in until the dining-room
rang with their mirth.
"Well," said the doctor, as he pushed back his chair, half an hour
later; "if Florence takes the prize for the best cooking, Polly
ought to have the one for the best entertainment."
The guests went away early, and Polly ran upstairs to take off her
best gown and slip on a comfortable dark blue wrapper. When she
returned to the parlor, her mother was sitting in front of the
fire, in a wide sleepy-hollow chair. She turned her head, as Polly
entered the room.
"Come, dear," she said; "there's room for two here."
And Polly came.
The motherly arm around her shoulders felt very comforting to her
just then; and, like a little, tired child, she cried it all out,
all the weariness and mortification and sense of failure. But
while the tears were still falling, she began to laugh once more.
"Oh, Jerusalem Adams!" she said; "did you ever see anything so
funny as Miss Bean was about my soup?"
Her mother smiled, but before she had time to reply, Polly went on
tragically,--
"But wasn't it all dreadful, mamma? Seems to me I never can look
any of them in the face again, Mrs.
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