"But you will not have to work so hard when
I can help mother from my salary, and I don't at
all dislike the idea of going out as some girls
do. I'm not afraid," said Polly, with the
brightest brave look on her bonnie face.

"But I dislike the idea for you;" said Jane,
and did not drop her opposition even when Mrs.
Curtis interposed with the remark that Polly
was very sensible, and for anything she should
do to hinder it, might have her own way: she
had much better go for a governess than stop
at home to be picked up and married by somebody
who would die and leave her with a dozen
children to fend for, and nothing to put in their
mouths.

Polly laughed: "Don't be anxious, mammy
dear, catch me marrying after listening to you
and Mrs. Sanders for all these years! I should
as soon think of jumping into the canal!"

"Hush, Polly, don't be silly," said Jane.
"What do you know about it? All men don't
die like papa, and all women are not such bad
wives as Mrs. Sanders—yes, I call her a bad
wife—always speaking ill of her husband, who
is no worse than other people's."

"Then how disagreeable other people's must
be," retorted Polly naughtily.

Jane shook her head at her reprovingly, and
the subject dropped for the moment. But it was
to this whim of Polly's that Mrs. Curtis was
referring when she told her favourite gossip
that no sooner was Jack off her hands than
there was Polly to think of—as if the anxiety
would be hers. She was not an unkind mother,
but she had no desire to keep her children at
home, and it was her evident willingness to part
with Polly, who had never given her a day's
pain since she was born, that had most to do
with Polly's determination to go. She was a
clever little creature, and had been well
educated; kisses, caresses, indulgences had never
been in her way, and she felt no need of them.
The atmosphere of home was too cold for the
development of affectionateness. Jane had
wisely ordained that she should be trained to
be serviceable, but she had not intended that
her pet sister should work like herself while she
could work for her; and she was thoroughly
dismayed when she heard the little thing declare
that she meant to use the weapons of independence
that had been put into her hands, to keep
herself, and help her mother. Jane had never
been otherwise than rather plain, and when, at
twenty, Dr. Shore proposed to her, her mother
and everybody else had said that it was so
clearly her duty to stay at home, and assist in
bringing up the younger children, that she had
abandoned all hope of having a life of her own,
and had applied herself to extending and
strengthening her musical connexion, which was
already yielding her a nice little income. We
may suppose that her affections had not been
very deeply engaged, though often afterwards,
when tired and jaded with a long day's work,
she used to think that if the fates had been
propitious, she could have been very happy as
Dr. Shore's wife: he had married then, and
there was no place of repentance left her, and
she kept her regrets to herself; but it was one
of her chief pleasures of imagination to throne
Polly in some good man's love, and bless them
with children to whom she was to be a fairy-
godmother and special providence: for Polly
was very sweet and pretty, a round, rosy, soft,
dimpled little creature, whom it was quite a
temptation to kind people to fondle and be
tender to.

But Polly, too sensible, too practical mite
that she was, did not care for their fondling,
and made a mock at their tenderness. She prided
herself on her strength of mind and her
capability, and was quite in earnest to prove them.
As for being pretty, and having eyes like golden
syrup and a complexion of milk and roses, what
did it matter? She had brains, too, and would
make quite as good a governess as ugly girls;
and she would a great deal rather be Jane with
money of her own, and free and independent,
than be dragged to death with children like her
mother, or have shillings doled out to her one by
one for housekeeping, like Mrs. Sanders. As
for falling in love, people didn't all fall in love,
and she was not going to fall in love? Jane
might trust her for that—she was not an idiot,
and she should take good care to nip any sentiment
of that sort in the bud.

While Polly was still at home her mother had
shown her that process of nipping sentiment
in the bud, and though Polly spoke of it thus
airily when she wanted to reassure Jane, she
had manifested some temper at the time of the
actual occurrence. It was on this wise. A
school-fellow of her brother Tom, who had been
at Heidelberg University for a couple of years,
came back to Norminster, and called on Mrs.
Curtis. Tom had left home then, but Walter
Scott nevertheless called again, and after the
second visit, when he had seen Polly, and heard
her and Jane sing, he sent some German music
that he had copied with his own hand, and a
nice little note addressed to Polly. Mrs. Curtis
pursed up her mouth as Polly's expanded in a
pleased and rosy smile, and said: "That music
must be returned, Polly."

Polly's countenance was solemnised in a
moment, and her clear brown eyes sparkled as
she asked, briefly, "Why?"

"Because I say so. I know what I am
about and what I mean, Polly."

"Wait till Jane comes in; it is nothing to
make a fuss about."

"Do what I bid you, and do it at once. Tie
up the music again, and write a civil note to
say that you never accept presents."

"This music has not cost him sixpence—
only his trouble," said Polly, still reluctant.
"Jane will be vexed."

Mrs. Curtis frowned a brief repetition of her
command (she did not want for will, and usually
had her own way), and then Polly obeyed—
presenting "her compliments and thanks to
Mr. Walter Scott, but her mother did not allow
her to accept presents."

Jane fulfilled Polly's prediction of being vexed.