His reception immediately explained that he was known to Mrs. Bretton.
She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she was fluttered,
surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner were even expostulatory;
and in reply to these, rather than her words, he said,--"I could not
help it, madam: I found it impossible to leave the country without
seeing with my own eyes how she settled."

"But you will unsettle her."

"I hope not. And how is papa's little Polly?"

This question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and placed her
gently on the ground before him.

"How is Polly's papa?" was the reply, as she leaned on his knee, and
gazed up into his face.

It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was thankful; but it
was a scene of feeling too brimful, and which, because the cup did not
foam up high or furiously overflow, only oppressed one the more. On all
occasions of vehement, unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain or
ridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have ever
felt most burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its own
will, a giant slave under the sway of good sense.

Mr. Home was a stern-featured--perhaps I should rather say, a
hard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his cheekbones were
marked and prominent. The character of his face was quite Scotch; but
there was feeling in his eye, and emotion in his now agitated
countenance. His northern accent in speaking harmonised with his
physiognomy. He was at once proud-looking and homely-looking. He laid
his hand on the child's uplifted head. She said--"Kiss Polly."

He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry, so that I
might get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully little noise: she
seemed to have got what she wanted--_all_ she wanted, and to be in a
trance of content. Neither in mien nor in features was this creature
like her sire, and yet she was of his strain: her mind had been filled
from his, as the cup from the flagon.

Indisputably, Mr. Home owned manly self-control, however he might
secretly feel on some matters. "Polly," he said, looking down on his
little girl, "go into the hall; you will see papa's great-coat lying on
a chair; put your hand into the pockets, you will find a
pocket-handkerchief there; bring it to me."

She obeyed; went and returned deftly and nimbly. He was talking to Mrs.
Bretton when she came back, and she waited with the handkerchief in her
hand. It was