d looked into her face with a world of beseeching in
his big black eyes. After all it was no very difficult matter to get at
Polly's warm heart. She looked over her shoulder.

"George, will you give Maggie a seat beside you," she said. "No, none of
the rest of us want to drive. Come on, David. Now, David, what is it?"

"It's about Flower," said David. "She--she--you don't none of you know
Flower yet."

"Oh, I am not sure of that," replied Polly, speaking on purpose in a
very careless tone. "I suppose she's much like other girls. She's rather
pretty, of course, and has nice ways with her. I made stories about you
both, but you're not a bit like anything I thought of. In some ways
you're nicer, in some not so nice. Why, what is the matter, David? What
are you staring at me so hard for?"

"Because you're all wrong," responded David. "You don't know Flower.
She's not like other girls; not a bit. There were girls at Ballarat, and
she wasn't like them. But no one wondered at that, for they were rough,
and not like real ladies. And there were girls on board the big ship we
came over in, and they weren't rough, but Flower wasn't a bit like them
either. And she's not like any of you, Polly, although I'm sure you are
nice, and Helen is sweet, and Fly is a little brick. Flower is not like
any other girl I have ever seen."

"She must be an oddity, then," said Polly. "I hate oddities. Do let's
walk a little faster, David."

"You are wrong again," persisted David, quickening his steps. "An oddity
is some one to laugh at, but no one has ever dreamed of laughing at
Flower. She is just herself, like no one else in the world. No, you
don't any of you know her yet. I suppose you are every one of you
thinking that she's the very nicest and cleverest and perfectest girl
you ever met?"

"I'm sure we are not," said Polly. "I think, for my part, there has been
a great deal too much fuss made about her. I'm getting tired of her
airs, and I think she was very rude just now."

"Oh, don't, Polly, you frighten me. I want to tell you something so
badly. Will you treat it as a great, enormous secret? will you never
reveal it, Polly?"

"What a queer boy you are," said Polly. "No, I won't tell. What's the
mystery?"

"It's this. Flower is sometimes--sometimes--oh, it's dreadful to have
to tell!--Flower is sometimes not nice."

Polly's eyes danced.

"You're a darling, David!" she said. "Of course, that sister of yours is
not perfect. I'd