The letter finished, there was a long silence, so long a silence that the doctor uttered a quiet, "Well, Polly?"
Still there was silence. The doctor, watching his wife's face closely, saw that the usually firm lips and chin were trembling. He waited then quietly until his wife spoke.
"How soon—do you think—they'll expect her?" she asked at last.
In spite of himself Dr. Chilton gave a slight start.
"You—mean—that you will let her go?" he cried.
His wife turned indignantly.
"Why, Thomas Chilton, what a question! Do you suppose, after a letter like that, I could do anything but let her go? Besides, didn't Dr. Ames himself ask us to? Do you think, after what that man has done for Pollyanna, that I'd refuse him anything—no matter what it was?"
"Dear, dear! I hope, now, that the doctor won't take it into his head to ask for—for you, my love," murmured the husband-of-a-year, with a whimsical smile. But his wife only gave him a deservedly scornful glance, and said:
"You may write Dr. Ames that we'll send Pollyanna; and ask him to tell Miss Wetherby to give us full instructions. It must be sometime before the tenth of next month, of course, for you sail then; and I want to see the child properly established myself before I leave, naturally."
"When will you tell Pollyanna?"
"To-morrow, probably."
