cried Maggie, and grown suddenly impatient
of Polly's grave airs, she seized her, shook her,
kissed her, never deranging her dignity however,
a hairsbreadth. Polly tolerated her caressing
patiently and sweetly, it was Maggie's
way; and when there was nobody to see, she
did not object to her petting and spoiling—it
pleased Maggie and did not hurt her—so she
said with her admirable coolness, which Maggie
was much too humble and adoring ever to
resent.

Finally, Polly was arrayed in the pink dress
with tucker and cuffs of fine lace, and her
glossy brown hair tied round with a pink
ribbon—as dainty a little lady as had ever
stepped down the stairs of Blackthorn Grange in
all the three hundred years since it had been
built. It was a farm-house which the Livingstones
had tenanted for three generations, but
the old beauty of it, with its walled garden and
mossy orchard, was still cherished, and the
Livingstones, by virtue of descent, connexion,
and a small entailed estate in the family, ranked
with the minor gentry and the clergy of their
neighbourhood. Polly, as she tripped along the
hall, said she liked the house, and if she was
Maggie, she should feel quite romantic, and
proud of living in such a fine ancient place.

The parlour door was ajar, and Mrs. Livingstone
overheard the cheerful young voice
expressing a sentiment that pleased her. She
held out a hand to welcome Polly again, and
said: "So I thought when I arrived here after
my marriage."

"The window on the stairs was a picture as
we went up, with the moon rising and the red
bars of sunset behind the great bare trees in
the garden; what time of the year did you
come?" said Polly, whose sympathy was very
quick.

"It was a September evening and the sky
all aglow with scarlet and fire. I remember
resting in that window-seat, my first rest
in my new home; there was a fir-tree standing
then that is gone now; but you are cold,
child; sit here on this low stool and get
warmed. Maggie, you should not have kept
her up-stairs so long to starve her."

"I never felt the cold until I saw the fire,'
said Polly, pleasantly, and deposited herself in
the corner between Mrs. Livingstone and the
fender, on the low stool as she was bidden, and
then looked calmly about at the room and its
occupants.

It was a large room, low, and with the beams
of the ceiling visible; the wide window was
crimson curtained, and all the furniture was
old and substantial, but there was neither
decoration nor taste anywhere. The three sisters
had not an ounce of taste amongst them, and
when lilacs, gillyflowers, and roses were over in
the garden, the big china bowl on the centre
table stood empty, or served as a receptacle
for waifs and strays escaped from careless
hands and pockets. The sisters were in perfect
accord with their unadorned surroundings;
large, honest, healthy young women with a good
and well-grounded opinion of themselves, and
Maggie with just glimmering enough of sentiment
besides to feel the charm of a friend like
Polly, who was instinct with life and spirit, and
a perfect contrast to herself. The inclination
to protect and caress her little guest had
evidently taken hold of Mrs. Livingstone as it
did of so many other warm-hearted people;
for twice or thrice, as Polly sat toasting in her
corner, the house-mother took up one of her
small hands and chafed it gently between her
own, and Polly looked at her as she never had
occasion to look at her own poor shrewish
mother at home. Polly loved her mother, but
mothers lose a great deal who keep their children
at a distance: so thought Polly thus introduced
into the bosom of a family, all the members of
which were fond of each other and not afraid to
show it.

They were talking rather noisily and several
of them together, when there was a bustle in
the hall, a loud voice, a loud step, and then the
opening of the door, at which appeared a tall
young man in a scarlet coat and velvet cap who
asked: "Well, hasn't she come?" not seeing
the little figure in the corner half hidden by his
mother.

"Yes!" cried Maggie, "she is here; stand
up, Polly, and say how d'ye do to Bob!"

Polly rose with extreme circumspection and
executed the frigid manœuvre that she had been
laboriously instructed to perform when a gentleman
was introduced, only she blushed with it,
which was not in the dancing-school order.
Bob brought his spurred heels together with a
click, and imitated the bow preposterously—the
blush was beyond him; but Polly's eyes were
downcast, and she was spared the anguish of
seeing her grave airs made fun of by this
disrespectful person, whose mother admonished
him to go away and make haste for dinner, it
was late. Bob obeyed, with a comical grimace
at Maggie, which she replied to with a half
laugh—rude, very rude; but there was
something about that queer little Polly, turned
precisian, that provoked it, and her utter
unconsciousness of the effect she produced increased
the humour of the joke.

When Bob came back to the parlour the
servant was just announcing dinner, and the
young man stepped briskly across the room to
Polly, and bending unnecessarily low, offered
her his arm with an exaggerated affectation of
courtesy that wakened Maggie's alarm and
made her long to box his ears. But Polly took
it with beautiful serenity, and kept step with
him composedly until he placed her by himself
at table in the full light of the lamp—the
loveliest little thing that had ever sat there
since he was master, as he thought, glancing
down at her with more serious approval. And
it was capital to hear her talk. How he had
expected to hear her talk goodness knows; but
when she used the right words about a fox-hunt,
and asked if they had had a good run to-day, and
if he was in at the death, and who won the brush,
it is impossible to say whether he was most