"You cross little savage thing! And it is
not very polite to tell me Bob's a bear! He is
nothing of the kind. You ought to feel
flattered; he would not plague you if he did not
think you nice. Maria Spinks was here a whole
month, and he never offered to kiss her once."

Polly dried her eyes and looked up. "He is
so abominably rough," she began, and then was
scared into silence at the recollection of the
blow she had given him, which, strictly speaking,
was far more in the nature of an assault
than a kiss.

"Ah, you may well stop and bethink yourself
of his provocation," said Maggie, significantly.

"Did I hurt him?" asked Polly, with lovely
wistfulness.

"Dreadfully! How could you help it, hitting
him as you did purposely in the region of the
heart? And Bob is very delicate. It is easy
to be sorry for it afterwards, but that is the way
people get into passions, and commit murder,
or manslaughter, at least."

"I wish I could go away to-morrow before
breakfast," said Polly, ready to sink with shame
and self-reproach.

"That is impossible. You will just have to
do penance and sit by Bob, and if you take
my advice you will behave as usual, and say
nothing about to-night. It is lucky my mother
was not there; she would never forgive you
for hurting Bob."

"I'm sure I won't mention it, Maggie; I
think I should die if anybody else knew," said
Polly, ruefully. "It has made me feel so small
and contemptible. If I had only remembered
myself and kept my temper it would not have
happened."

"Nonsense; it can't be helped now; think
of the old song—'If a body kiss a body, need a
body cry?' If you had been here at our New
Year's party, you might have been kissed a
dozen times under the mistletoe, if Bob had not
intimated that he would not stand it; nothing
varies more in kind and degree than a kiss, you
know."

"I don't know; but I want no more of Bob's
kind and degree; my cheek and chin are red
yet."

"Well, don't complain—it is your own fault;
you may be sure it is when I tell you so," said
Maggie; and Polly held her peace.

It was difficult next morning when Polly
went down to breakfast a minute or two late.
Mrs. Livingstone offered her cheek to her, and
Bob, with not a little extra colour in his face,
gave her a cordial, expressive shake of the hand.
Maggie had reported Polly's wrath and distress
in unmitigated terms, and Bob was sorry he had
been "a perfect bear," and "so abominably
rough." She was much too shy and conscious
to talk in her wonted way, and he perceived
he had gone too far and frightened her—and
heartily vexed at himself he was for his blundering
stupidity. He transgressed in the opposite
direction that day, and was as tenderly assiduous
as a lover; Polly did not appreciate his kindness,
but seeing that his repentance for his great
offence was deep and unfeigned, she forgave
him fully and freely—so fully that when he took
his leave of her at the Warden House, whither
he had driven her and Maggie over in his dog-
cart, and said humbly: "We are friends again,
Polly, are we not? And you will come again
at Easter?"

Polly, with a rosy beneficent countenance
shining on him, replied: "Yes—if I may."

CHAPTER IV.

POLLY'S adventures at the Warden House
were passed chiefly in the school-room. The
children were reasonably good, and Mrs.
Stapylton was abundantly satisfied with her new
governess's cheerfulness, skill, and industry;
but the first time she sounded her praises to
her husband, the captain replied: "Don't
expect to keep the little woman long, my dear.
She is uncommonly pretty, and I am very much
mistaken if Bob Livingstone is not sweet on
her; he always inquires after her so amiably
when we meet at the market table."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Stapylton; and the next
time the meet was at the Warden House, she
bade her husband invite Bob to ride over the
previous day and sleep; and she contrived to
have a lady short at dinner, and asked Polly to
be so kind as to leave lessons for once and fill
the gap; for she was an amiable woman, married
after her own heart, and would be glad, as she
said, to give such a nice little thing a chance.

Polly had the sagacity to leave her profession
up-stairs, and to come down charming in her
white dress and white ribbons, but Bob felt it
was not quite like having her to himself at
Blackthorn Grange. Yet she was much easier
here, and talked and was as gay as any one.
There was nothing in Polly to provoke or invite
an impertinence. The ladies made no difference
with her, and her face was enough to ensure
her kindness at first sight from men. If Bob
was a person to be influenced by other people's
opinions, he heard many golden ones of Polly
at the Warden House, and all casually expressed
without reference to him. Perhaps he did
carry away an idea or two of her more meaning
than any he brought—Maggie certainly
believed it, and began to insinuate the same in
her letters to her friend; but Polly was heedless
and indifferent to Bob, and her work and duty
were much more in her head than "nonsense,"
which sufficiently accounted for her never
responding to Maggie's hints and queries.

Easter did not linger, but was soon come,
bringing with it Polly's second visit to the
Grange. It was a lovely Easter that year—
warm, sunny, serene as May, with hedges green,
pear-trees and cherry-trees in blossom, and
even roses in bud under the shelter of the
eaves on the south wall of the old house. They
made it quite a gay season at Blackthorn
Grange, and Polly, whose dignities had worn
easier already, entered into it with all the
natural joyousness of her temper and time of life.
She was exceedingly pleasant about the house,
and the many visitors, kinsfolk, and neighbours,