ss."

"Oh, no! I haven't done anything--only told Ilga Barron what I thought
of her. And I'm glad I did!"

"That the pudgy girl we met the other day?--the one that didn't have
cloth enough for a decent dress?"

In spite of herself, Polly let go a giggle with her assent. "Why,
father," she remonstrated, "she could have her skirts longer if she
wanted to! She's Senator Barron's daughter!"

A quiver of laughter stirred the Doctor's face.

"All right, we'll let the Senator's daughter wear her frocks as short
as she pleases. But what else has she been doing?"

"She said," began Polly, "that you--oh, I can't!" She caught her
breath in a sob.

"About me, was it? I see! You've been carrying a burden intended for
me on your small shoulders, when mine are broad enough to bear a
whole pack of abuse! Drop the load at once, Thistledown!"

Despite his tender humor, Polly detected in his voice a note of
command, and she strove to obey.

"She said--that you--that you--were a nobody!"

"Is that all?" he laughed. "Well, so I am, measured by her standard,
for I am neither a man of wealth nor an influential politician. But,
Thistledown, don't you think you are a bit foolish to let that trouble
you?"

"There's something else," she replied plaintively.

"I am ready."

"She told some girls--she meant I should hear--that--that your sister
is--an idiot!" The sentence ended in a wail.

Dr. Dudley's arms tightened around the slender little figure, and for
a moment he did not speak.

When words came they were in a soft, sad voice.

"I have no sister on earth. She went to Heaven two years ago. I will
tell you about it. Until Ruth was six years old she was a bright,
beautiful little girl, beloved by everybody. She was eight years
younger than I, and my especial pet. Then came the terrible fever, and
for days we thought she could not live. Finally she rallied, only for
us to discover that we had lost her--her brain was a wreck. The
semblance of Ruth stayed with us twelve years longer, until she was
eighteen years old; then she went Home. That is undoubtedly the
foundation for Ilga's malicious little story; but, you see,
Thistledown, there is no present cause for sorrow, only thankfulness
that Ruth's journey is safely ended. We can remember her now for the
dear child she was."

Polly was crying softly on her father's shoulder. Presently she
asked:--

"May I tell Ilga?"

"I wouldn't bring up the subject. If it should ever be