“But besides Missy?”

“Polly, papa calls her.”

“Will Polly be content to live with me?”

“Not always; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away.” She shook her head expressively.

“He will return to Polly, or send for her.”

“Will he, ma’am? Do you know he will?”

“I think so.”

“But Harriet thinks not—at least, not for a long while. He is ill.”

Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton’s, and made a movement to leave her lap. It was at first resisted, but she said, “Please, I wish to go. I can sit on a stool.”

She was allowed to slip down from the knee; and taking a footstool, she carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated herself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even a peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles. She allowed the child her way. She said to me, “Take no notice at present.” But I did take notice. I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee, her head on her hand. I observed her draw a square inch or two of pocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then I heard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, without shame or restraint; but this being wept—the tiniest occasional sniff testified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it, which was quite as well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded, “May the bell be rung for Harriet?”

I rang. The nurse was summoned and came.

“Harriet. I must be put to bed,” said her little mistress. “You must ask where my bed is.”

Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry.

“Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet.”

“No, missy,” said the nurse; “you are to share this young lady’s room,” designating me.

Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After some minutes’ silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner.

“I wish you, ma’am, good-night,” said she to Mrs. Bretton, but she passed me mute.

“Good-night, Polly,” I said.

“No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber,” was the reply with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heard Harriet propose to carry her upstairs. “No need,” was again her answer, “no need, no need,” and her small step toiled wearily up the staircase.

On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. She had arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in a sitting posture. Her hands, placed one within the other, rested quietly on the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I abstained from speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing the light I recommended her to lie down.

“By-and-by,” was the answer.