the listener's heart and nestled there. The sweet
old tunes that one is never tired of were all Polly's store; and her
favorites were Scotch airs, such as, "Yellow-Haired Laddie," "Jock o'
Hazeldean," "Down among the Heather," and "Birks of Aberfeldie." The
more she sung, the better she did it; and when she wound up with "A
Health to King Charlie," the room quite rung with the stirring music
made by the big piano and the little maid.

"By George, that 's a jolly tune! Sing it again, please," cried Tom's
voice; and there was Tom's red head bobbing up over the high back of the
chair where he had hidden himself.

It gave Polly quite a turn, for she thought no one was hearing her but
the old lady dozing by the fire. "I can't sing any more; I 'm tired,"
she said, and walked away to Madam in the other room. The red head
vanished like a meteor, for Polly's tone had been decidedly cool.

The old lady put out her hand, and drawing Polly to her knee, looked
into her face with such kind eyes, that Polly forgot the impressive cap,
and smiled at her confidingly; for she saw that her simple music had
pleased her listener, and she felt glad to know it.

"You must n't mind my staring, dear," said Madam, softly pinching her
rosy cheek. "I have n't seen a little girl for so long, it does my old
eyes good to look at you."

Polly thought that a very odd speech, and could n't help saying, "Are
n't Fan and Maud little girls, too?"

"Oh, dear, no! not what I call little girls. Fan has been a young
lady this two years, and Maud is a spoiled baby. Your mother 's a very
sensible woman, my child."

"What a very queer old lady!" thought Polly; but she said "Yes 'm"
respectfully, and looked at the fire.

"You don't understand what I mean, do you?" asked Madam, still holding
her by the chin.

"No 'm; not quite."

"Well, dear, I 'll tell you. In my day, children of fourteen and fifteen
did n't dress in the height of the fashion; go to parties, as nearly
like those of grown people as it 's possible to make them; lead idle,
giddy, unhealthy lives, and get blas, at twenty. We were little folks
till eighteen or so; worked and studied, dressed and played, like
children; honored our parents; and our days were much longer in the land
than now, it seems to, me."

The old lady appeared to forget Polly at the end of her speech; for she
sat patting the plump little hand that lay in her own, and looking up at
a faded picture of an old gentleman wit