he could, of course, put everything right and—more immediate cause for rejoicing—Polly could cook!
"Oh, come down to the kitchen and get Cousin Jasper something to eat," he begged. "He is almost starved. It is half past eight and he had lunch at twelve."
He gave Tom Brighton a rapid account of what had happened that day—of the letter, of Cousin Jasper's increasing agitation, of his final desperate call for help on his own responsibility.
"Poor Oliver, what a day you have had, while the rest of us were enjoying ourselves at the fair!" said Cousin Tom. "Polly and I happened to come home early before the storm, so that your message found us and we came at once."
"And he is starved himself," put in Polly. "He has not had anything to eat any more than Cousin Jasper."
It was wonderful to watch Polly making short shrift of the remains of his own awkward preparations, to see her skillful manipulation of the gas burners and her marvelous dexterity with the egg beater. And this slim, eager, shy Polly, with her crinkled brown hair and her freckled nose, this was really Eleanor Brighton. Oliver sat down limply upon one of the kitchen chairs to contemplate the wonder of it anew.
"I did not know who you were, myself, that first day," she said, "though Daddy guessed at once and
