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6 Worth Woman’s While The Doctor’s Little Polly. In the mountains of North Carolina, twelve miles from the old town of R , stands a brick man- sion, which, fifty years ago, was known as the Creighton place. From its position at the foot of a darkly-wooded peak, it looks out beyond its terraces and the long driveway leading up to it? from the main road like some old feudal castle across a moat. To the left lie the acres and barns of gen erations of Dexters; to the right and at the rear, stretched, in the days of the Doctor and his little Polly, the long line of negro quarters with their gnarled old shade trees and cleanly swept door yards. Hither stole Polly when, escaping Aunt Betty’s falcon eye, her little feet could be seen fly ing down the path to “the quarters,” sure to be followed all too soon by the old nurse’s indignant form and the high falsetto in which she cried, “Don’t you know you ain’t got no business playin’ wid niggers?” and overpowered, but quite cheerful and fully determined to return again, Polly would be led away. Polly was always a cheerful child till the winter when she was five years old the rain and mist that hung about the mountains seemed to cast their chill over her little heart, and she would sit ini the old window seat or stand with her face pressed against the panes looking out in unchildlike silence till Aunt Betty would mumble as she moved about, “Sump’n’ got to be done wid dat chile—sump’n’ got to be done! Jos’ gazin’ an’ gazin’ day after day. I can’t go about dat window myself widout seein’ dat black line creepin’ ’long de road like it was some monster er crawlin’, an’ de rain er driz zlin’ down, an’ de mud up to de hub o’ de kerridge wheels. Lawd, Lawd, it was a sight to see her ma carried off like dat! ’Pear like sump’n’ in the chile’s min’ like what in mine, jes’ er settin’ dar lookin’ an’ er keepin’ so still! An’ her pa gone off way to de Nor’f, an’ dat ’oman er settin’ in yonner in her ma’s place; Lawd, but dere’s been strange doin’s in dis house! Mistus in her grave but t’ree mont’s when here come dis new one what ain’t skurcely our kind o’ folks, nohow, an’ ev’ything so change ’round. But what kin ole Bet ty do?” As the spring grew on Polly would fall into strange fits of crying and sobbing. “I want to go to the Cross-Roads—T will go! I want to go and stay with Brother Joe!” she would cry. “Now. Miss Polly, what make yon go on lak dat?” It was a warm night toward the end of April, and Polly had demanded that the windows be left open to let in the flood of moonlight and the sounds from “the quarters.” The thumping of Tom’s banjo, accompanied by subdued singing and the cries of the little negroes at play in the open, floated up to her. “What would Marse Audley say? You know de Cross Roads ain’t no place for you! ’Tain’t no place for Marse Joe yit—jes’ er livin’ dar in dat room at de sto’ wid yer Cousin Henry. An’ you know he never would er been dar ’ceptin’ he was bleedged to go to school some’ers. What you gwine to do when he go off to college nex’ fall? You might as well git use’ to it—you and Nat, too. Dat nigger sho’ look lak he is goin’ to ’struction, sence Marse Joe went away he don’t do nothin’ but prowl ’round over dese mountains wid dem dogs. Dar now! Ain’t I jes’ tell yer? Hear dat, don’t you? Ole Skip er howlin’ like all possessed, and Nat an’ the yether dogs gone over the mountain. He needn’t think he gwine to college wid Marse Joe, case I heard de Mistis tell Marse Audley dey warn’t no use in Marse Joe havin’ a servant while he at school—dat how come he ain’t at de Cross-Roads wid ’im now.” Skip’s voice raised in prolonged and piteous la ment pierced the heart of Polly. The Golden Age for September 13, 1906. By FLORENCE TUCKER “It’s mean to chain him up,” she cried—“it’s mean!” and burying her face in Aunt Betty’s lap she fell into a passion of weeping. “I will go to the Cross-Roads, and I’ll take Skip, too!” Aunt Betty gathered the convulsive little form into her arms and soothed and crooned over her till she fell asleep with the tears on her round cheek. Then laying her down gently she stole from the room and along the shaded path to “the quar ters,” where Tom still sat before his door idly thumping. “Tom,” she said, with the hectoring air the old carriage-driver was so long accustomed to. “Tom, you git dat kerridge ready in de mawnin’! I’m gwine take dat chile to de Cross-Roads. She been er pinin’ an’ er pinin’ here twell she mighty nigh grieve herself to death. She dunno what it is, but she grievin’ after her ma. She think she want her brother Joe, an’ if dat gwine comfort her, I gwine take her to ’im!” “What Marse Audley gwine say?” Tom looked at her askance. “What she gwine say?” “Now, you look here, nigger!” Aunt Betty set tled her hands more firmly on her hips. “What Marse Audley say is ’tween Marse Audley an’ me ’tain’t none o’ yo’ consarnment. Likewise, her what calls herself de mistis. You have dat ker ridge ready—dat’s all you got to do!” And haugh ty and erect she marched back. Next morning, as Nat threw wide the big gate Tom flourished his whip and lines, and shining ii the spring sunlight the carriage swung through. Polly, dimpling with delight, stood up and waved her two hands and cried, “Good-by, Good-by!” to the troop of little negroes who st&od watching her off, and Skip, from his position on the front seat, yelped in delicious excitement. “And, Aunt Betty,” cried the child as she set tled herself happily, “I can have a poke-bonnet, can’t I? —like my new mamma! You know they will have them at the store—they have everything at the store!” “Lor’, chile, how er ole nigger like me know what you kin have? You’ll have what yo’ pa bring you from de Nor’f, an’ what yo’ new ma git you when she go to de city, an’ dat you will be satisfied wid. As to dey havin’ ev’ything at de sto’, I wish it was so; den I wouldn’t be so misput in my min’ ’bout what I gwine to do wid you when I git you dar.” And Cousin Henry and Brother Joe were at first as much perplexed as was Aunt Betty. It was very nearly as Polly said, they had everything at the store—a little of everything—as was the re quirement of a country store, nine miles from the nearest town; and among the sundries might have been included hospitality. At the rear of the build ing the smaller of the two rooms was reserved for the not infrequent wayfarer, the other being oc cupied by the clerk and shared at present by the doctor’s son. Tn the smaller room, after some con sternation, Polly and Aunt Betty were domiciled. “Drawn the elephant this time, by Jupiter! Nurses and babies at the general merchandise es tablishment of Creighton and Company. Whew!” Henry Holleman gave a low whistle as he mounted the high stool at his desk. “Wonder what the doctor will say?” But Polly felt no share in the general apprehen sion. In the peculiar relation existing between the doctor and his little girl, fear had no part. Re garding him with a sort of adoration she was in turn the child of his tenderest devotion. Happy to be again with the brother who was her hero, she allowed him never out of her sight; trudged after him to school, where she sat contentedly through the long hours, and out of school was hijs faithful shadow, whether following him to set bird traps or looking on in admiration at; the trials of strength through which the men put the boy. Aunt Betty grew daily more irascible—she wanted, to be at home, this rather primitive living did not answer the demands of her pampered tastes, and, perhaps, too, she dreaded the day now drawing near when she must answer to the doctor. But Polly had no notion of return.. “I won’t go home,” she cried. “I won’t! Fath er is not there, and Brother Joe is not there, and I won’t go—l say I won’t! ” So it was the middle of a warm afternoon in May found her perched in the mulberry tree over the horse-rack. Joe had managed to put her off, and had ridden away on some quest of which she was not told. She was lying back among the thick leaves listening to the birds and lulled to dreaminess by the droning insects—even her new bonnet was for gotten—the poke-bonnet Henry Holleman had been teased into giving her, and which he had himself trimmed with a wreath of brilliant cotton flowers. It mattered not to Polly that it was several sizes larger than her little head could fill, being intended for a well-grown miss—it satisfied her utterly, and now was most comfortable as she leaned back oa the leafy branches, making of it, in her abstraction, a sort of pillow for her day-dreams. Presently her attention was drawn to two horsemen who approach ed slowly, dismounted, hitched their animals to the rack, and seated themselves upon the root of the mulberry. “Dick Simpson was in Charlotte Tuesday,” said the taller of the two, “and seen him receive the two thousand dollars. He told me so hisself last night at James’ store.” The shorter man’s answer was spoken in tones too low to be distinguishable. “We’ve got to have that money,” went on the first. “He’ll be along here about dark, or some thin’ after, and it’s all easy enough.” Polly held her breath as she peered down through the thick branches, they looked so rough, and the sight of a bottle which one pulled from 'his pocket and passed to his companion filled her with terror even more than did their language which she coujld only tell hinted at dark things. She had heard the maids whisper together of the silent, mysterious doings over the mountain—how men had gone over and never come back, and none ever knew what fate had been theirs, for those silent mountains told no tales. It was there they made the whiskey which so crazed Tom that he beat his poor wife till her screams almost threw Polly into convul sions. She was sure these two had come from Cherry Mountain, and here they were planning to get money from somebody—she held tightly to the limb and listened. “We’ll jest wait there in that thicket at the turn o’ the road by that big muscadine vine, and when he comes on he’ll give up the money, or we’ll jest take it if we have to take somethin’ else with it. Those here men that’s got more’n their share, and don’t seem disposed to divvy up is likely to get called on to do it soon or late, anyhow.” \\ hile Polly lay out in the mulberry tree, resting her head against her poke-bonnet and soothed bv the summer sounds, Mr. Holleman had said to Aunt Betty that he would leave Pete Nowell in charge of the store while lie rode over to Graham’s—word had come that the doctor would be on that night, and would have business with Graham, who must be notified. M hen the two men got up and saunter ed into the store, Polly, round-eyed and breathless, tumbled from the old mulberry, and sped into the room where Aunt Polly was mending a little torn truck. Pale and limp she fell into tne old nurse’s arms. “Aunt Betty!” she gasped, “they’re going to kill him! They’re going to take all his money, and then they’re going to kill him!” “Kill? Kill who? Chile, what in the name o’ God’s trufe be you talkin’ ’bout?” she said, iras cibly, thinking, perhaps, of the meeting with the doctor, her mind not easily distracted from so en grossing a prospect But as Polly insisted on de tailing every word, of the two dreadful looking