“I think you go my way,” spoke a clear voice behind her. “May I take you home?”
Polly turned quickly, to look into the gray eyes of Patricia Illingworth.
“Oh, thank you!” was the smiling response. “I didn’t know it was raining until just this minute.”
Before she had time for more, the other had caught her arm, and she was being escorted to the street under Mrs. Illingworth’s green silk umbrella. Then she was seated beside Patricia, and they were gliding along the road. Even in her delighted surprise the thought that all day had been uppermost pushed itself to her lips. But it was Patricia that spoke first.
“I have been wanting to know you ever since I first spied you this morning,” she beamed. “I was in the front door when you were going in at the side. I knew we’d be friends right away.”
Polly looked her pleasure.
“And I’ve been longing to get acquainted with you,” she confessed. “It was partly on account of your name. That was mamma’s name too, – she was Phebe Illingworth.”
“Why, isn’t that fine!” exclaimed Patricia. “I’m going straight to look in papa’s Genealogy, just as soon as I get home, and see if we’re related! Wouldn’t it be grand if we are?”
She squeezed Polly rapturously.
Then the car stopped at Dr. Dudley’s door.
“My grandfather’s name was Rufus Illingworth,” added Polly to her thanks. “Oh, I do hope we are cousins!” she smiled. “I’ve been wishing and wishing for ever so long that I had a cousin, and it will be lovelicious if you should turn out to be one.”
With earnest good-byes the new friends separated, and from the shelter of the piazza Polly answered the salute of the little hand at the limousine window as long as she could see it.
There was no holding back this time. The story of the day, or the portion of it occupied by Patricia Illingworth, was related in detail, both in Mrs. Dudley’s room before tea and at the table afterwards, as the Doctor was kept busy at the hospital until six o’clock.
They were through with the meal, and Polly was helping her mother carry the dishes into the kitchen, when the telephone called the physician from the room. In a moment he was back.
“Your new friend is holding the wire for you,” he told Polly. And she ran, her heart happy and fearful all at once.
“That you, Polly? Oh, say, we are cousins – third cousins! Isn’t that great?”
“Beautiful!” responded Polly.
“We had the longest time finding the book! I was afraid we’d left it in Nevada, and mamma was too; but it was ’way down in the bottom of a trunk. Do say you’re glad, and say it good and strong, so I’ll know you mean it! I couldn’t wait till to-morrow! I hope I haven’t bothered your father.”
Polly’s reply seemed fully to satisfy the other end of the line, and, with a good-night and a promise to be early at school the next morning, she hung up the receiver.
CHAPTER V
A MONOPOLIST AND A FANFARON
On their way to school Polly and David were joined by Patricia; but soon afterwards the lad courteously excused himself, to run across the street to see an acquaintance.
“Nice boy, isn’t he?” observed Patricia.
“He’s lovely,” praised Polly, but she scowled a little, her eyes following David. “I wish he hadn’t gone off so quick,” she added regretfully; “I wanted you to know each other.”
“I like him,” admired Patricia, “and I like my new cousin,” she giggled, squeezing Polly’s arm, “I just love her!”
So for the moment David was forgotten, and the boy, viewing them from a little distance behind, saw them enter the school yard in high glee. Laughter was far from his face as he followed. He wished that Patricia Illingworth had stayed in Nevada.
At the foot of the staircase the two girls met Ilga Barron. The Senator’s daughter instantly seized upon Patricia with a playful reprimand.
“You ran away from me last night!”
“Yes, I went to carry my cousin home,” retorted Patricia roguishly.
“Who, I’d like to know? Nobody in this school!”
“Yes, she’s right here!” laughed the other, enjoying Ilga’s puzzled stare. “Allow me to present my cousin, Polly Dudley!” She drew Polly forward.
“Huh, not much! You can’t make me swallow that!”
“It’s true! Isn’t it, Polly? We’re third cousins! I found it in the Genealogy last night! Her mother was an Illingworth!”
Ilga’s face lighted.
“Oh, you’re ’way off!” she broke out. “She isn’t related to her mother at all. She’s only an adopted child.”
“But I mean her real mother!” returned Patricia indignantly. “Her own mother was Phebe Illingworth, and was second cousin to my father – as if I didn’t know!”
“I don’t care!” Ilga retorted. And she ran up the stairs.
Some of the girls, standing by, snickered; but Polly and Patricia gazed soberly at each other. Then they walked over to the rows of hooks, unbuttoning their coats as they went.
“I think Ilga Barron’s just horrid!” whispered Patricia. “I didn’t like her yesterday, and to-day I hate her!”
“Oh, you mustn’t!” objected Polly.
“Why not?”
“Because we ought to love everybody, I s’pose,” Polly answered slowly.
“Do you love her?” demanded Patricia. “Do you, honest?”
Polly shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t now,” she admitted; “but maybe I can some time.”
Patricia laughed. “I don’t b’lieve I shall – ever,” she declared; “you can love her enough for us both.”
A flock of girls came in from outside, and confidences were hushed, the two presently going upstairs arm in arm.
“Don’t forget that you are to go home with me right after school to-night!” whispered Patricia, just before they reached the upper door.
“I couldn’t,” was the smiling answer. And Polly went to her seat, still thinking of the pleasure ahead.
At noon David lingered behind until the girls were gone, and hurried off in advance of them on the way back, trying to satisfy his conscience with the argument that they wouldn’t want him “tagging on anyway.” So the new friends were left for the greater share of the walk quite to themselves, Polly, when not too much interested in tales of the pet broncho back in Silverton, keeping a lookout for David, and wondering where he could possibly be. She even went so far as to wish, away down in her secret heart, that David were going with her on the first visit to her new cousin.
Opening from the principal schoolroom was a deep, narrow closet where the working supplies were kept. To reach the shelves at the back one must pass through the pinched little door, an easy matter for a sprite like Polly, who flitted in and out at any angle; but an occasional plump pupil was obliged to slip in sideways or be unpleasantly squeezed.
The afternoon was half through when extra paper was needed, and Miss Carpenter, an assistant teacher, asked Ilga Barron to fetch some.
“One of those large packages on the third shelf,” she explained,