nd through the
roof and fly away to another country where he would never hear again
of his trouble, and yet a force pushed him downstairs step by step.
The implacable faces of his employer and of the Madam stared upon his
discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack Mooney who
was coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They saluted
coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick
bulldog face and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of
the staircase he glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door of
the return-room.

Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall artistes,
a little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly.
The reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack's violence.
Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste, a little paler than
usual, kept smiling and saying that there was no harm meant: but Jack
kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game on
with his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so he
would.

Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she
dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of
the towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water.
She looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear.
Then she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She regarded
the pillows for a long time and the sight of them awakened in her mind
secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the
cool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any
perturbation visible on her face.

She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories
gradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and
visions were so intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows
on which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting for
anything.

At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to
the banisters.

"Polly! Polly!"

"Yes, mamma?"

"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you."

Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.

A LITTLE CLOUD

EIGHT years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and
wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once
by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few
fellows had