do, or dream you can, begin it.Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.’”
“Make way for the story-teller!” cried Edgar. “I will buy season tickets for both your groups, if you will only make your limit of age include me. I am only five feet ten, and I ‘ll sit very low if you ‘ll admit me to the charmed circle. Shall you have a stage name? I would suggest ‘The Seraphic Sapphira.’”
“Now, don’t tease,” said Polly, with dignity; “this is in sober earnest. What do you think, Fairy Godmother? I ‘ve written to my dear Miss Mary Denison in Santa Barbara, and she likes the idea.”
“I think it is charming. In fact, I can hardly wait to begin. I will be your business manager, my Pollykins, and we ‘ll make it a success, if it is possible. If you ‘ll take me into your confidence and tell me what you mean to do, I will plan the hows and whens and wheres.”
“You see, dear people,” continued Polly, “it is really the only thing that I know how to do; and I have had several months’ experience, so that I ‘m not entirely untrained. I ‘m not afraid any more, so long as it is only children; though the presence of one grown person makes me tongue-tied. Grown-up people never know how to listen, somehow, and they make you more conscious of yourself. But when the children gaze up at you with their shining eyes and their parted lips,—the smiles just longing to be smiled and the tear-drops just waiting to glisten,—I don’t know what there is about it, but it makes you wish you could go on forever and never break the spell. And it makes you tremble, too, for fear you should say anything wrong. You seem so close to children when you are telling them stories; just as if a little, little silken thread spun itself out from one side of your heart through each of theirs, until it came back to be fastened in your own again; and it holds so tight, so tight, when you have done your best and the children are pleased and grateful.”
For days after this discussion Polly felt as if she were dwelling on a mysterious height from which she could see all the kingdoms of the earth. She said little and thought much (oh, that this should come to be written of Polly Oliver!). The past which she had regretted with such passionate fervor still fought for a place among present plans and future hopes. But she was almost convinced in these days that a benevolent Power might after all be helping her to work out her own salvation in an appointed way, with occasional weariness and tears, like the rest of the world.
It was in such a softened mood that she sat alone in church one Sunday afternoon at vespers. She had chosen a place where she was sure of sitting quietly by herself, and where the rumble of the organ and the words of the service would come to her soothingly. The late afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, bringing out the tender blue on the Madonna’s gown, the white on the wings of angels and robes of newborn innocents, the glow of rose and carmine, with here and there a glorious gleam of Tyrian purple. Then her eyes fell on a memorial window opposite her. A mother bowed with grief was seated on some steps of rough-hewn stones. The glory of her hair swept about her knees. Her arms were empty; her hands locked; her head bent. Above stood a little child, with hand just extended to open a great door, which was about to unclose and admit him. He reached up his hand fearlessly (“and that is faith,” thought Polly), and at the same time he glanced down at his weeping mother, as if to say, “Look up, mother dear! I am safely in.”
Just then the choir burst into a grand hymn which was new to Polly, and which came to her with the force of a personal message:—
“The Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar—
Who follows in His train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in His train.”
Verse after verse rang in splendid strength through the solemn aisles of the church, ending with the lines:—
“O God, to us may strength be given
To follow in His train!”
Dr. George’s voice came to Polly as it sounded that gray October afternoon beside the sea; “When the sun of one’s happiness is set, one lights a candle called ‘Patience,’ and guides one’s footsteps by that.”
She leaned her head on the pew in front of her, and breathed a prayer. The minister was praying for the rest of the people, but she needed to utter her own thought just then.
“Father in heaven, I will try to follow; I have lighted my little candle, help me to keep it burning! I shall stumble often in the darkness, I know, for it was all so clear when I could walk by my darling mother’s light, which was like the sun, so bright, so pure, so strong! Help me to keep the little candle steady, so that it may throw its beams farther and farther into the pathway that now looks so dim.”
Polly sank to sleep that night in her white bed in the Pilgrim Chamber; and the name of the chamber was Peace indeed, for she had a smile on her lips,—a smile that looked as if the little candle had in truth been lighted in her soul, and was shining through her face as though it were a window.
Chapter XVII.
Polly Launches Her Ships
There were great doings in the Birds Nest.
A hundred dainty circulars, printed in black and scarlet on Irish linen paper, had been sent to those ladies on Mrs. Bird’s calling-list who had children between the ages of five and twelve, that being Polly’s chosen limit of age.
These notes of invitation read as follows:—
“Come, tell us a story!”
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR.
Mrs. Donald Bird requests the pleasure of your company from 4.30 to 5.30 o’clock on Mondays or Thursdays from November to March inclusive.
FIRST GROUP: Mondays. Children from 5 to 8 years.
SECOND GROUP: Thursdays. ” ” 8 ” 12 years.
Each group limited in number to twenty-four.
Miss Pauline Oliver will tell stories suitable to the ages of the children, adapted to their prevailing interests, and appropriate to the special months of the year.
These stories will be chosen with the greatest care, and will embrace representative tales of all classes,—narrative, realistic, scientific, imaginative, and historical. They will be illustrated by songs and black-board sketches. Terms for the Series (Twenty Hours), Five Dollars.
R.S.V.P.
Polly felt an absolute sense of suffocation as she saw Mrs. Bird seal and address the last square envelope.
“If anybody does come,” she said, somewhat sadly, “I am afraid it will be only that the story hour is at your lovely house.”
“Don’t be so foolishly independent, my child. If I gather the groups, it is
