Of all Polly’s new friends, not one took a warmer interest in the young idea-vendor than that first customer of hers, Miss Beatrice Compton. Miss Beatrice was a warm-hearted and enthusiastic girl, who never did anything by halves; and when she talked of Polly, of Polly’s skill and of Polly’s originality, when she extolled Polly’s eyes and Polly’s hair, Polly’s wit and Polly’s sweetness, few listeners remained quite unmoved and incurious. Among the many who were thus stirred to seek out this youthful paragon, was Miss Compton’s brother-in-law, Mr. Horace Clapp. Nor was an idle curiosity his only motive in taking the step. Beneath the pretext he found for paying the visit lurked a rather shamefaced 174 purpose of doing this “plucky little genius” a good turn.

It happened, therefore, one morning in December, that Polly came home from her marketing to find a stranger sitting in her porch. A dog-cart, driven by a groom in livery, was passing and repassing her door; and one look at the occupant of the porch sufficed to fix the connection between the two. He was a well-dressed man of thirty or more, who rose as she opened the gate and saluted her as if she had been a duchess.

“Miss Polly Fitch?” he inquired, as he stood before her, hat in hand.

It was noticeable that no one ever omitted the “Polly” from the girl’s name. It seemed as much a part of her as the ruddy hair and the dimple in her chin. That dimple, by the way, should have been mentioned long ago; but that, in its turn, was so essential a feature, that one would as soon think it necessary to state that Polly’s nose had an upward tilt as that her chin had a dimple. Any one who had ever heard of Polly must know 175 that her nose would tilt and her chin have a dimple.

Polly had a large market-basket on her arm, and as she felt in her pocket for the key to the front door, her visitor took possession of the basket. She was a good deal impressed by the attention from so magnificent a personage, and one, moreover, of advanced years. She began to think that she must be mistaken about his being thirty; why, that was Cousin John’s age, and Cousin John was quite an oldish man. She motioned her visitor to enter, and it must be admitted that there was no oppressive reverence in her tone as she said:

“If you would tell me your name, now we should be starting fair!”

“My name is Horace Clapp. Did you ever hear of me?”

“No, I don’t think so. Ought I to have?”

“Well, no, there’s no obligation in the matter. I only had an idea that I was a local celebrity, like you.”

“Like me?” 176

“Yes! You’re a surprise to the town and so am I.”

“What have you done to surprise the town?” asked Polly, filled with curiosity.

“I’ve only got rich very fast.”

“Why, so have I!” said Polly. “We are a good deal alike.”

“Really? Then you will be in an even better position to advise me than I thought for.”

“I supposed you had come for an idea,” said Polly, as naturally as if her wares had consisted in tape and buttons.

Offering her visitor the only fairly comfortable chair in the room, she seated herself by the window, near which was one of the draped barrels with her work-basket on top.

“You won’t mind my sewing, please,” she said, picking up a bit of embroidery; “I can think better that way.”

The new customer meanwhile was wondering whether Miss Polly would guess that he had come partly from curiosity, and partly with that other far more daring motive of finding a way to do her a service. 177 And yet, who could tell? Perhaps she could give him a hint; perhaps she was the youthful sibyl people seemed half inclined to believe her.

“Miss Polly,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees,—“Miss Polly, I’ve got an awful lot of money, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Mere words had not often the power of staying Polly’s needle, but at this astounding declaration she actually let her work fall in her lap, and gazed with wide-eyed wonder at the speaker.

“Yes,” he went on, “I really want to do some good with it, and I’ve tried in lots of ways and I’ve never hit it off. I should just like to tell you about some of the things I’ve made a fizzle of in the last year,—if it wouldn’t bore you?”

“Oh, no, it wouldn’t bore me; nothing ever does. Only,—I can’t understand it. Why, I think I could give away a thousand dollars a year just there at home, where we used to live, and every dollar of it would be well spent!” 178

“Yes, Miss Polly,” he said very meekly, “but, you see, what I’ve got to consider is two hundred thousand dollars a year!”

He looked positively ashamed of himself, and Polly did not wonder. She had given a little gasp at mention of the sum; then she shook her head with decision. Polly knew her limits.

“I haven’t any ideas big enough for that” she said. “I should as soon think of advising the President of the United States!”

“Well, if you won’t advise me about mine, perhaps you will tell me what you are going to do with your own riches. You said you were getting rich, did you not? You know,” he added, “it isn’t necessary to make the map of a State as big as the State itself.”

“You have ideas, too,” Polly remarked appreciatively, resuming her embroidery.

“But you have not told me how you are going to use your riches.”

“Oh, I’m going to use mine for education.”

“Going up to the college?” he asked. 179

“Oh, no; there’d be no good in my knowing a lot. I’ve been nearly through the Fieldham High School already, and the little that I’ve learned doesn’t seem to stick very well. No, indeed! I’m going to—” she paused with a feeling of loyalty to Dan—“I’m only going to help on the general cause of education,” she finished demurely.

As she made this sphinx-like remark, Mr. Horace Clapp wished she would relinquish the pursuit of wealth long enough to put her work down and let him see exactly what she meant.

“I think that is the best use to put money to,” he said gravely, “but I’m not in the way of knowing about people who need help. Couldn’t you tell me of somebody, some young man who wanted to go to college, or some girl who would like to go abroad? Of course, I could found a scholarship, or endow a ‘chair,’ but one likes a bit of the personal element in one’s work.”

Polly’s heart gave a thump. Here was a chance for Dan; a word from her was 180 all that was needed to make his path an easy one. Had she a right to withhold that word,—to cramp and hinder him? She did not speak for a good many seconds; she simply plied her needle with more and more diligence, while her breath came fast and unevenly. Suddenly a furious blush went mounting up into her temples and spread itself down her neck. Her visitor thought he had never seen any one blush like that, and it somehow struck him that his little plan was swamped. Quite right he was, too. Polly blushed to think that she had thought of Dan in such a connection for a single instant.

It was very unreasoning, this impulse of rebellious shame: are we not admonished to help one another? And what could the helpers do if all their benefactions were indignantly thrust back? Very unreasoning indeed, but natural!—natural as the colour of her hair and the quickness of her wit, natural as all the graces and virtues, all the misconceptions and foibles, that went to make up the personality of Polly Fitch,—of Polly Fitch, the daughter 181 of Puritan ancestors; men and women who could starve, body and mind, but who never had learned to accept a charity.

Before the flush had died away, Polly was quite herself again, and looked up so brightly and sweetly that Mr. Clapp took heart of hope.

“You do know somebody like that; I’m sure you do!” he said insinuatingly.

“I?” said Polly. “I know hardly anybody. But I’m sure the president of the college could tell you of a dozen boys who would be grateful for help.”

And so Mr. Horace Clapp’s little plan had come to nought, and he took his leave more than ever convinced that it is a very difficult thing to spend one’s money in a good cause. As he stood a moment, waiting for his dog-cart, a boy came down the street with a parcel under his arm.

“Say, Mister, do you know whether Daniel Fitch lives here?” he asked.

“Daniel Fitch?” thought Mr. Clapp, as the boy turned in at the gate. “Daniel Fitch? Where have I heard that name? Oh, yes, Beatrice said there was a brother; 182 runs errands for Jones, the druggist. Plucky children! It would be pleasant to give them a lift!”

As for Polly, she had not a twinge of regret. In fact, she rather enjoyed dwelling upon the splendour of the opportunity she had thrust from her, the better to glory in her escape. And she looked forward with entire confidence to the time when she should test Dan’s feeling on the point.

On Christmas Eve they hung up their stockings, fairly bulging with materialised jokes and ideas which the morning was to bring to light, and we may be sure that they did not wait for the lazy winter sun to put in an appearance before beginning their investigations. Amid shouts of merriment the revelations of a remarkably inventive Santa Claus were greeted, while Polly held her climbing excitement in check until the hour should be ripe for greater things. But when, at last, just as the sun was peeping in at the kitchen window, Dan’s ferret fingers penetrated the extreme toe of his sock, she grew so agitated 183 that she quite forgot to make a certain witty observation she had been saving up for that particular moment. And so it came about that an unwonted silence reigned as the unsuspecting Dan drew forth a small flat parcel labelled: “A Merry Christmas from Polly.”

Within was their familiar bank-book, wrapped about with a less familiar sheet of note-paper bearing the following inscription:

“An Idea! Namely, to wit: That Daniel Reddiman Fitch, Esq., lay aside his character of Mercury, and become a student at Colorado College!

“P. S.—An examination of the within balance will assure the said Dan that there is nothing to ............