the reverse; but when the small stranger
smiled at her, she kissed it, asking, "What is my little one's name?"

"Missy."

"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 up-stairs. "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 arr