side of the way which seemed to indicate that
preparations for the departure of the young
traveller were still in progress. One by one,
even these died out. All became dark, and might
have been silent also, but for the interposition
of an infirm old gentleman, clad in several coats,
who hobbled along the footway, mentioning, for
the advantage of anybody who might peradventure
have forgotten to go to bed, that it was past
twelve o'clock.

It is not written in my notes at what precise
hour Miss Humpage rose on the following day;
but I do know that when, at nine o'clock, a
hackney-coach, once, as it seemed, the property
of a marquis of florid taste, tumbled up to Mrs.
Ascroft's door, and fell into a jingling halt,
Polly-my-Lamb, fully dressed, and pacing her
drawing-room, not only heard, but saw it.

There appeared to be no especial haste, for it
was twenty minutes or more before any notice
was taken of the vehicle, during which interval
the coachman dozed, with a bit of straw in his
mouth, and his chin on his breast, as if he were
sucking up some "cobbler," or "julep" (neither
then invented, I believe), that lay concealed
among the capes of his rusty coat. At the
expiration of that time, sundry articles of baggage,
well secured, as though for a voyage, began to
be brought out, and disposed in and about the
coach. Two or three persons, neighbours, went
in, doubtless to bid the traveller good speed, and
finally Mistress Ascroft, in person, was revealed
at the door, looking eagerly up and down, as if
to ascertain, first, whether it had dared to rain;
secondly, whether any, and if so, what change
befitting the melancholy occasion, Jermyn-street
had undergone.

But Polly's eyes, as she stood far back in the
room, were riveted upon one window, for, across
its field, a black-velvet figure had glided once
and again. For twelve days the face had been
averted. Would he now come to the window?
Would he? would he? Polly shuddered at the
earnestness with which she caught herself
muttering the words ..... O, what matter now?
She would forgive all, bear all, if that comfort
might only be. Why does he linger in the room,
passing, repassing? He starts. They are calling
him from below. The coachman looks at Saint
James's clock, and lashes his horses over the eyes,
as a hint to wake and be ready. And now. O, not
without one look, to make friends, one look, one.

A maid bounced in, and drew down the blind!

Polly had unconsciously approached nearer to
the window. A figure issued from the door.
No, it is not he. It is none other than little
Mr. Hartshorne. He too has been to say
farewell. He waves a parting hand; and, looking
sad enough, turns away—glares across towards
number twenty-seven, stops suddenly, makes
three skips to the door, and rings sharply at
the bell!

Before he can be admitted, maid Kezia
presents Miss Serocold's love. Miss Humpage is
not to be uneasy, the lady has an alarming
dizziness in her front tooth. Happening to observe
Mr. Hartshorne passing, and to catch his eye,
Miss Serocold had waved etiquette and her
handkerchief—and—yes—there was his step
going up-stairs.

Polly murmured some condolence; then,
dismissing the maid, resumed her invisible watch,
longing, yet hardly hoping, to catch one glimpse
of the estranged face as it passed to the carriage.
Both driver and horses had relapsed into slumber,
and not even the deep voice of Saint James's,
chiming the hour, aroused them to the consciousness
of time's progress. It was now ten o'clock,
and the Harwich post-coach quitted the
suburban yard at eleven.

Suddenly, Mistress Ascroft reappeared with a
small provision-basket. This she placed in the
coach; but then, instead of re-entering the house,
to Polly's great surprise, walked hurriedly across
the road, and bestowed on the door of number
twenty-seven a knock which, soft and modest
though it was, thrilled the lady of that mansion
from head to foot. Her heart gave a jump, then
subsided into a low tremble. Mrs. Goodall
appeared, with a singular message.

"The respectful duty of young Mr. Haggerdorn.
If Miss Humpage condescended to retain
any favourable recollection of Mr. H.'s former
pictures, would she be pleased to inspect his
latest effort? If so, it should be immediately
transported to the house."

Polly felt herself colour to the very brows.
This was the parting shot! She was to learn
what love could do, in transferring to the inanimate
canvas the perfections of its idol. Refuse
she dared not, for that might imply resentment,
or wounded pride, of neither of which she wished
him to believe that she considered his fickle
fancy deserving. Then, too, she was sensible of
a burning curiosity to see how far, with such
slender artistic gifts, he had succeeded in arresting
any one of the beautiful, but ever-changing,
expressions that characterised the face of his
new favourite. She signified a cool assent.

Nothing, perhaps, could have better tended
to restore Polly's mind to its usual balance, than
the heartless revenge—or was it vanity?—of her
recreant lover; and, by the time she received
intimation that the picture awaited her in the
parlour, and that the artist had attended it in
person, she was prepared to descend with a
calm and dignity that literally astonished herself.

On the landing-place, Polly was greeted by
Mr. Hartshorne and her much-recovered aunt,
and together they proceeded to the parlour.

There, on an extemporised easel, stood the
wonderful picture, shrouded from view, as yet,
in a green cloth, which Mr. Haggerdorn, grasping
with a somewhat agitated hand, prepared to
twitch off on the young lady's entrance.

He bowed respectfully, and murmured some
words, to which Polly, not comprehending them
very clearly, returned an almost inarticulate
reply. She made a slight movement with her
hand. Off went the cover.