Yes, it must be confessed. Polly was homesick. All her imaginations of her mother's hard work, increased by her absence, loomed up before her, till she was almost ready to fly home without a minute's warning. At night, when no one knew it, the tears would come racing over the poor, forlorn little face, and would not be squeezed back. It got to be noticed finally; and one and all redoubled their exertions to make everything twice as pleasant as ever!  
The only place, except in front of the grand piano, where Polly approached a state of comparative happiness, was in the greenhouse.
 
Here she would stay, comforted and soothed among the lovely plants and rich exotics, rejoicing the heart of Old Turner the gardener, who since Polly's first rapturous entrance, had taken her into his good graces for all time.
 
Every chance she could steal after practice hours were over, and after the clamorous demands of the boys upon her time were fully satisfied, was seized to fly on the wings of the wind, to the flowers.
 
But even with the music and flowers the dancing light in the eyes went down a little; and Polly, growing more silent and pale, moved around with a little droop to the small figure that had only been wont to fly through the wide halls and spacious rooms with gay and springing step.
 
“Polly don't like us,” at last said Van one day in despair. “Then, dear,” said Mrs. Whitney, “you must be kinder to her than ever; think what it would be for one of you to be away from home even among friends.”
 
“I'd like it first rate to be away from Percy,” said Van, reflectively; “I wouldn't come back in three, no, six weeks.”
 
“My son,” said his mamma, “just stop and think how badly you would feel, if you really couldn't see Percy.”
 
“Well,” said Van, and he showed signs of relenting a little at that; “but Percy is perfectly awful, mamma, you don't know; and he feels so smart too,” he said vindictively.
 
“Well,” said Mrs. Whitney, softly, “let's think what we can do for Polly; it makes me feel very badly to see her sad little face.”
 
“I don't know,” said Van, running over in his mind all the possible ways he could think of for entertaining anybody, “unless she'd like my new book of travels—or my velocipede,” he added.
 
“I'm afraid those wouldn't quite answer the purpose,” said his mamma, smiling—“especially the last; yet we must think of something.”
 
But just here Mr. King thought it about time to take matters into his hands. So, with a great many chucklings and shruggings when no one was by, he had departed after breakfast one day, simply saying he shouldn't be back to lunch.
 
Polly sat in the drawing-room, near the edge of the twilight, practicing away bravely. Somehow, of all the days when the home feeling was the strongest, this day it seemed as if she could bear it no longer. If she could only see Phronsie for just one moment! “I shall have to give up!” she moaned. “I can't bear it!” and over went her head on the music rack.
 
“Where is she?” said a voice over in front of the piano, in the gathering dusk—unmistakably Mr. King's.
 
“Oh, she's always at the piano,” said Van. “She must be there now, somewhere,” and then somebody laughed. Then came in the loudest of whispers from little Dick, “Oh, Jappy, what'll she say?”
 
“Hush!” said one of the other boys; “do be still, Dick!”
 
Polly sat up very straight, and whisked off the tears quickly. Up came Mr. King with an enormous bundle in his arms; and he marched up to the piano, puffing with his exertions.
 
“Here, Polly, hold your arms,” he had only strength to gasp. And then he broke out into a loud burst of merriment, in which all the troop joined, until the big room echoed with the sound.
 
At this, the bundle opened suddenly, and—out popped Phronsie!
 
“Here I'm! I'm here, Polly!”
 
But Polly couldn't speak; and if Jasper hadn't caught her just in time, she would have tumbled over backward from the stool, Phronsie and all!
 
“Aren't you glad I've come, Polly?” asked Phronsie, with her little face close to Polly's own.
 
That brought Polly to. “Oh, Phronsie!” she cried, and strained her to her heart; while the boys crowded around, and plied her with sudden questions.
 
“Now you'll stay,” cried Van; “say, Polly, won't you.”
 
“Weren't you awfully surprised?” cried Percy; “say, Polly, awfully?”
 
“Is her name Phronsie,” put in Dick, unwilling to be left out, and not thinking of anything else to ask.
 
“Boys,” whispered their mother, warningly, “she can't answer you; just look at her face.”
 
And to be sure, our Polly's face was a study to behold. All its old sunniness was as nothing to the joy that now transfigured it.
 
“Oh!” she cried, coming out of her rapture a little, and springing over to Mr. King with Phronsie still in her arms. “Oh, you are the dearest and best Mr. King I ever saw! but how did you make mammy let her come?”
 
“Isn't he splendid!” cried Jasper in intense pride, swelling up. “Father knew how to do it.”
 
But Polly's arms were around the old gentleman's neck, so she didn't hear. “There, there,” he said soothingly, patting her brown, fuzzy head. Something was going down the old gentleman's neck, that wet his collar, and made him whisper very tenderly in her ear, “don't give way now, Polly; Phronsie'll see you.”
 
“I know,” gasped Polly, controlling her sobs; “I won't—only—I can't thank you!”
 
&ldq............