ou think!"

Miss Sterling went suddenly limp and dropped into a chair.

"You don't know--for certain?" she cried. "I do! Mr. Randolph
sent you those roses--both boxes!"

The woman felt the flame in her face and turned quickly on pretense
of searching for something in her sewing-basket. She was so long
about it that Polly began to complain.

"You don't care very much, seems to me! I thought you'd be just as
glad as I am!"

"Why, I am glad to find out who sent them, dear, as glad as can be!
But I may as well be sewing on these buttons while you are talking.
Now, tell me how you found out--I'm dying to know!" she laughed.

"Well, it's so funny!" Polly resumed. "You see, our Sunday-School
is going to send a boy in India to college, and last Sunday we had
to tell how we'd earned what we brought. A boy in Chris's class,
Herbert Ogden, said Mr. Randolph paid him fifteen cents apiece for
carrying two boxes of roses to the June Holiday Home. So after
Sunday-School Chris went along with him and asked him if he
remembered who the boxes were for. He said, 'Oh, yes, because it
was such a queer name! They were both directed to Miss Ju-an-i-ta
Sterling!' Chris said it was all he could do to keep his face
straight. And the boy went on to say he remembered the last name
because it made him think of sterling silver! Wasn't that the
greatest?"

The exclamations and laughter satisfied even Polly.

"You'll thank him right away, shan't you?" she queried.

"I suppose I ought." sighed the possessor of the roses.

"Don't you want to?" Polly's tone showed her surprise.

"Such notes are hard to write," was the discreet answer. She bent
closer over her work than there was any need. Her cheeks were
pinking up again.

"I do believe you're growing near-sighted!" declared Polly
irrelevantly.

"No, I guess not," she replied calmly. "This button bothered
me--it's all right now," as Polly scrutinized the waist.

"I shouldn't think you'd hate to write to Mr. Randolph. I think
he's lovely!"

"I presume he is," Miss Sterling said quietly. "I'm not well
acquainted with him, you know."

"I'll write it for you," proposed Polly, "if you'd like me to."

The little woman bending over the blouse caught her breath--to
think of missing the writing of that thank-you to Nelson Randolph!

"Oh, no, dear! I won't shirk my duty. It wouldn't look quite the
thing for you to do it."

"Perhaps it wouldn't," Polly agreed, "though I'