“Here goes!” said he, making a menacing flourish—“right through Fido’s head, and splitting little Harry’s nose.”

“No! No! NO!”

“Then come to me. Come quickly, or it is done.”

She hesitated, lingered, but complied.

“Now, will you have it?” he asked, as she stood before him.

“Please.”

“But I shall want payment.”

“How much?”

“A kiss.”

“Give the picture first into my hand.”

Polly, as she said this, looked rather faithless, in her turn. Graham gave it. She absconded a debtor, darted to her father, and took refuge on his knee. Graham rose in mimic wrath and followed. She buried her face in Mr. Home’s waistcoat.

“Papa, papa, send him away!”

“I’ll not be sent away,” said Graham.

With face still averted, she held out her hand to keep him off.

“Then I shall kiss the hand,” said he. But that moment it became a miniature fist, and dealt him payment in a small coin that was not kisses.

Graham—not failing, in his way, to be as wily as his little playmate—retreated, apparently quite discomfited. He flung himself on a sofa, and resting his head against the cushion, lay like one in pain. Polly, finding him silent, presently peeped at him. His eyes and face were covered with his hands. She turned on her father’s knee, and gazed at her foe anxiously and long. Graham groaned.

“Papa, what is the matter?” she whispered.

“You had better ask him, Polly.”

“Is he hurt?” (Groan second.)

“He makes a noise as if he were,” said Mr. Home.

“Mother,” suggested Graham feebly, “I think you had better send for the doctor. O my eye!” (Renewed silence, broken only by sighs from Graham.)

“If I were to become blind,” suggested this last.

His chastiser could not bear the suggestion. She was beside him directly.

“Let me see your eye. I did not mean to touch it—only your mouth; and I did not think I hit so very hard.”

Silence answered her. Her features worked. “I am sorry; I am sorry!”


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