Perfectly at ease and peace, Polly came along,
but, finding the stairs rather stiff work, was
carried up by Barbox Brothers. The dinner
was a most transcendent success, and the Barbox
sheepishness, under Polly's directions how
to mince her meat for her, and how to diffuse
gravy over the plate with a liberal and equal
hand, was another fine sight.

"And now," said Polly, " while we are at
dinner, you be good, and tell me that story I
taught you."

With the tremors of a civil service examination
on him, and very uncertain indeed, not only as
to the epoch at which the pie appeared in history,
but also as to the measurements of that
indispensable fact, Barbox Brothers made a
shaky beginning, but under encouragement did
very fairly. There was a want of breadth observable
in his rendering of the cheeks, as well
as the appetite, of the boy; and there was a
certain tameness in his fairy, referable to an
under-current of desire to account for her.
Still, as the first lumbering performance of a
good-humoured monster, it passed muster.

"I told you to be good," said Polly, " and
you are good, ain't you?"

"I hope so," replied Barbox Brothers.

Such was his deference that Polly, elevated
on a platform of sofa-cushions in a chair at his
right hand, encouraged him with a pat or two
on the face from the greasy bowl of her spoon,
and even, with a gracious kiss. In getting on
her feet upon her chair, however, to give him
this last reward, she toppled forward among the
dishes, and caused him to exclaim as he effected
her rescue: " Gracious Angels! Whew! I
thought we were in the fire, Polly!"

"What a coward you are, ain't you?" said
Polly, when replaced.

"Yes, I am rather nervous," he replied.
"Whew! Don't, Polly! Don't flourish your
spoon, or you'll go over sideways. Don't tilt
up your legs when you laugh, Polly, or you'll
go over backwards. Whew! Polly, Polly,
Polly," said Barbox Brothers, nearly succumbing
to despair," we are environed with dangers!"

Indeed, he could descry no security from the
pitfalls that were yawning for Polly, but in
proposing to her, after dinner, to sit upon a low
stool. " I will, if you will," said Polly. So,
as peace of mind should go before all, he begged
the waiter to wheel aside the table, bring a pack
of cards, a couple of footstools, and a screen,
and close in Polly and himself before the fire,
as it were in a snug room within the room.
Then, finest sight of all, was Barbox Brothers
on his footstool, with a pint decanter on the
rug, contemplating Polly as she built successfully,
and growing blue in the face with holding
his breath, lest he should blow the house
down.

"How you stare, don't you?" said Polly, in
a houseless pause.

Detected in the ignoble fact, he felt obliged
to admit, apologetically: " I am afraid I was
looking rather hard at you, Polly."

"Why do you stare?" asked Polly.

"I cannot," he murmured to himself, " recall
why.—- I don't know, Polly.'

"You must be a simpleton to do things and
not know why, mustn't you?" said Polly.

In spite or which reproof, he looked at the
child again, intently, as she bent her head over
her card-structure, her rich curls shading
her face. "It is impossible," he thought,
"that I can ever have seen this pretty baby
before. Can I have dreamed of her? In some
sorrowful dream?"

He could make nothing of it. So he went
into the building trade as a journeyman under
Polly, and they built three stories high, four
stories high: even five.

"I say. Who do you think is coming?"
asked Polly, rubbing her eyes after tea.

He guessed: "The waiter?"

"No," said Polly, "the dustman. I am
getting sleepy."

A new embarrassment for Barbox Brothers!

"I don't think I am going to be fetched
tonight," said Polly; " what do you think?"

He thought not, either. After another quarter
of an hour, the dustman not merely impending
but actually arriving, recourse was had to the
Constantinopolitan chambermaid: who cheerily
undertook that the child should sleep in a
comfortable and wholesome room, which she
herself would share.

"And I know you will be careful, won't you,"
said Barbox Brothers, as a new fear dawned
upon him, "that she don't fall out of bed."

Polly found this so highly entertaining that
she was under the necessity of clutching him
round the neck with both arms as he sat on his
footstool picking up the cards, and rocking him
to and fro, with her dimpled chin on his shoulder.

"O what a coward you are, ain't you!" said
Polly. " Do you fall out of bed?"

"N—- not generally, Polly."

"No more do I.""

With that, Polly gave him a reassuring hug
or two to keep him going, and then giving
that confiding mite of a hand of hers to be
swallowed up in the hand of the Constantinopolitan
chambermaid, trotted off, chattering,
without a vestige of anxiety.

He looked after her, had the screen removed
and the table and chairs replaced, and still
looked after her. He paced the room for half
an hour. " A most engaging little creature,
but it's not that. A most winning little voice,
but it's not that. That has much to do with it,
but there is something more. How can it be
that I seem to know this child? What was
it she imperfectly recalled to me when I felt her
touch in the street, and, looking down at her,
saw her looking up at me?"

"Mr. Jackson!"

With a start he turned towards the sound of
the subdued voice, and saw his answer standing
at the door.

"O Mr. Jackson, do not be severe with me.
Speak a word of encouragement to me, I beseech
you."

"You are Polly's mother."