“A little more—a little more,” said she, petulantly touching his hand with her forefinger, to make him incline the cup more generously and yieldingly. “It smells of spice and sugar, but I can’t taste it; your wrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy.”

He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity, “Don’t tell my mother or Lucy; they wouldn’t approve.”

“Nor do I,” said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as she had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if it had acted upon her like some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard; “I find it anything but sweet. It is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath. Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you; no more.”

And with a slight bend, careless, but as graceful as her dance, she glided from him and rejoined her father.

I think she had spoken truth. The child of seven was in the girl of seventeen.

Graham looked after her a little baffled, a little puzzled. His eye was on her a good deal during the rest of the evening, but she did not seem to notice him.

As we ascended to the drawing-room for tea, she took her father’s arm. Her natural place seemed to be at his side; her eyes and her ears were dedicated to him. He and Mrs. Bretton were the chief talkers of our little party, and Paulina was their best listener, attending closely to all that was said, prompting the repetition of this or that trait or adventure.

“And where were you at such a time, papa? And what did you say then? And tell Mrs. Bretton what happened on that occasion.” Thus she drew him out.

She did not again yield to any effervescence of glee; the infantine sparkle was exhaled for the night. She was soft, thoughtful, and docile. It was pretty to see her bid good-night. Her manner to Graham was touched with dignity; in her very slight smile and quiet bow spoke the countess, and Graham could not but look grave and bend responsive. I saw he hardly knew how to blend together in his ideas the dancing fairy and delicate dame.

Next day, when we were all assembled round the breakfast-table, shivering and fresh from the morning’s chill ablutions, Mrs. Bretton pronounced a decree that nobody who was not forced by dire necessity should quit her house that day.

Indeed, egress seemed next to impossible. The drift darkened the lower panes of the casement, and on looking out one saw the sky and air vexed and dim, the wind and snow in angry conflict. There was no fall now, but what had already descended was torn up from the earth, whirled round by brief shrieking gusts, and cast into a hundred fantastic forms.

The countess seconded Mrs. Bretton.

“Papa shall not go out,” said she, placing a seat for herself beside her father’s arm-chair. “I will look after him.—You won’t go into town, will you, papa?”

“Ay, and no,” was the answer. “If you and Mrs. Bretton are very good to me, Polly—kind, you know, and attentive; if you pet me in a very nice manner, and make much of me, I may possibly be induced to wait an hour after breakfast and see whether this razor-edged wind settles. But, you see, you give me no breakfast; you offer me nothing; you let me starve.”

“Quick! please, Mrs. Bretton, and pour out the coffee,” entreated Paulina, “whilst I take care of the Count de Bassompierre in other respects. Since he grew into a count he has needed so much attention.”

She separated and prepared a roll.