"Suppose you tell me one," invited the little lady.

"Well," returned Polly, a bit doubtfully, and then stopped to
think over her list. "The Cherry-Pudding Story," which usually
insisted on being uppermost, would scarcely do this time, she
thought. It seemed to rollicking for this big, hushed room, with
only one sober-eyed listener. She hastily decided that none of
the cat stories were suitable, or fairy tales--"Oh!" she
suddenly dimpled, "I wonder if you would n't like the story that
David lent me. His aunt wrote it, and sent it to him. I read it
to Miss Lucy and the children. It is about little Prince Benito
and a wonderful flower."

"I shall be pleased to hear it," was the polite reply.

This seemed somewhat doubtful to Polly, used as she was to
enthusiastic responses.

"Won't it tire you?" she hesitated.

"I am always tired, little one. Perhaps the story will rest
me."

"This I'll run right upstairs and get it," beamed Polly. "I
guess I can read it better than I can tell it. You don't mind
staying alone while I'm gone?"

"No, indeed!" was the reply, yet she sighed after Polly had
disappeared. All the brightness of the room seemed to have
vanished.

The little sad woman soon found herself watching for the light
returning footfalls, and she greeted the child with a faint smile.

Polly read as she talked, naturally and with ease, and before she
had finished the first page of the story her listener had settled
herself comfortably among her pillows, a look of interest on her
usually spiritless face.

It was a fanciful tale of a beautiful little prince who, by sowing
seeds of the Wonderful White Flower of Love, transformed his
father's kingdom, a country desolate from war and threatened by
famine and insurrection, into a land of prosperity and peace and
joy.

At the last word, Polly, flushed with the spirit of the story,
looked up expectantly; but her listener's weary eyes seemed to be
studying the pattern of the dainty comfort across her lap. Sadly
Polly gathered together the scattered manuscript sheets, and
waited.

"Thank you, dear," the little lady finally said; but the words
were spoken as with an effort.

"I am afraid I have tired you," mourned Polly.

"No, little one; you have only given me something to think of.
You read unusually well. Perhaps we'll have another story some
day. You don't need to stay, of you have anything else to do. I
shall want nothing until Miss Parkin comes.