quiet,
and, in the evening, _so_ kind."

This observation was not altogether groundless: going to church, &c.,
kept Graham quiet on the Sunday, and the evening he generally dedicated
to a serene, though rather indolent sort of enjoyment by the parlour
fireside. He would take possession of the couch, and then he would call
Polly.

Graham was a boy not quite as other boys are; all his delight did not
lie in action: he was capable of some intervals of contemplation; he
could take a pleasure too in reading, nor was his selection of books
wholly indiscriminate: there were glimmerings of characteristic
preference, and even of instinctive taste in the choice. He rarely, it
is true, remarked on what he read, but I have seen him sit and think of
it.

Polly, being near him, kneeling on a little cushion or the carpet, a
conversation would begin in murmurs, not inaudible, though subdued. I
caught a snatch of their tenor now and then; and, in truth, some
influence better and finer than that of every day, seemed to soothe
Graham at such times into no ungentle mood.

"Have you learned any hymns this week, Polly?"

"I have learned a very pretty one, four verses long. Shall I say it?"

"Speak nicely, then: don't be in a hurry."

The hymn being rehearsed, or rather half-chanted, in a little singing
voice, Graham would take exceptions at the manner, and proceed to give
a lesson in recitation. She was quick in learning, apt in imitating;
and, besides, her pleasure was to please Graham: she proved a ready
scholar. To the hymn would succeed some reading--perhaps a chapter in
the Bible; correction was seldom required here, for the child could
read any simple narrative chapter very well; and, when the subject was
such as she could understand and take an interest in, her expression
and emphasis were something remarkable. Joseph cast into the pit; the
calling of Samuel; Daniel in the lions' den;--these were favourite
passages: of the first especially she seemed perfectly to feel the
pathos.

"Poor Jacob!" she would sometimes say, with quivering lips. "How he
loved his son Joseph! As much," she once added--"as much, Graham, as I
love you: if you were to die" (and she re-opened the book, sought the
verse, and read), "I should refuse to be comforted, and go down into
the grave to you mourning."

With these words she gathered Graham in her little arms, drawing his
long-tressed head towards her. The action, I remember, struck me as
stran