nge of summer crimson
heightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lily
neck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she
had brought in her hand the letter just written--brought it folded but
unsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping step
faltered a little, paused a moment--the colour in her cheek flowed rosy
over her whole face.

"Polly," said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile,
"do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new."

"I don't blush--I never _do_ blush," affirmed she, while another eddy
from the heart sent up its scarlet. "But I thought you were in the
dining-room, and I wanted Lucy."

"You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just
been called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter
for you; it will save Matthieu a 'course,' as he calls it."

"I don't post letters," said she, rather pettishly.

"What do you do with them, then?--come here and tell me."

Both her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second--to say "Shall I
come?"--but she approached.

"How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seems
yesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutely
with both hands at the pen."

"Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag;
they are only notes, which I give now and then into the person's hands,
just to satisfy."

"The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?"

"No, papa--not Lucy."

"Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?"

"No, papa--not Mrs. Bretton."

"Who, then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth."

"Oh, papa!" she cried with earnestness, "I will--I _will_ tell you the
truth--all the truth; I am glad to tell you--glad, though I tremble."

She _did_ tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and also
gathering courage, shook her.

"I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love you
above everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address."

She laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his hand
shaking, his eyes glistening meantime.

He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful
amaze.

"Can _she_ write so--the little thing that stood at my knee but
yesterday? Can she feel so?"

"Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?"

"There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it pains
me."

"But, papa, listen! You shall not