bringing the two friends within eyesight of each
other again.

Nobody died, meanwhile, and nobody was
broken-hearted; only Mrs. Livingstone was
once heard to say, bitterly, to Maggie, "Don't
let me hear any more of your Polly Curtis!"
and henceforth Polly's letters were read in
private, and her name was never mentioned at
the Grange. Bob was not the man to rave over
a disappointment of the heart; he was more
inclined to console himself in a way that was a
sorrow to those at home. But Polly heard
nothing of these consolations. When she mused
of her old visits at Blackthorn Grange, which
she did with a tender paradoxical regret (seeing
how she had terminated them), her imagination
always represented everything there as it used
to be, though she knew Laura and Fanny were
married and gone, and that Mrs. Livingstone
was no longer the active strong house-mother
she had been. And an unconscious change had
come over Polly herself. A sweeter little woman
to behold there was not, far nor near, though
she dressed herself indifferently, as women do
who have no desire or expectation of attracting.
She had great fortitude at her tedious work, and
never flagged: she improved herself by private
study, and had economised a few pounds, which
she meant to carry her to a foreign school,
where she proposed to teach English in return
for lessons in music and languages. Mrs.
Curtis approved of her entirely, and Jane had
ceased to complain. Yes, Polly was most
exceedingly reasonable and practical, and was an
anxiety to no one; yet sometimes a terrible sense
of isolation would come over her, and she would
cry softly, with that old spasm of the heart,
"Oh, what a fool I have been!" as if she were
sorry for some past irretrievable blunder. She
had no longer the conceit of her own strength
that was so obtrusive in her at seventeen. She
had heard other people talk besides her mother
and Mrs. Sanders, and in the loving kindly
family where she was domesticated, she saw
quite the other side—the happy side—of married
life. But she was naturally reserved, and as she
had religiously kept her one offer to herself, so
she kept her repentance (if it was repentance),
and at the three years' end she prepared to
change the scene of her life, and go to
Germany.

Maggie Livingstone shed a few vexed tears
over Polly's letter which brought the first
announcement of her projected travels, and her
brother Bob surprised her again, as he had
surprised her on the original occasion which led to
Polly's first visit to the Grange. "Going to
Germany, is she?" said he, when the communication
of her affairs had been made to him—
"going to Germany——"

"Yes, and I shall never see her again very
likely. Poor little Polly! I was so fond of
her, Bob!"

"Other people were fond of her, too, Maggie,
but it was no use; she has not a bit of
heart."

"Don't say that, Bob; she has heart enough
for anything, but her head was crammed with
ridiculous theories and nonsense. I daresay
she is wiser now."

"We are all of us that when it's too late,"
rejoined Bob, and walked out of the room softly
whistling.

It was the same evening that Maggie
addressing her brother, said: "Bob, you'll drive
me into Lanswood on Saturday; I have written
to ask Polly to meet me at Miss Wiggins's shop
if it is fair, for a last walk and talk together.
I can't bear the thought of letting her go so far
from home without a word of good-bye."

"All right, Maggie," said Bob, with seeming
indifference, but Maggie knew better than to
believe it was real. She felt sure that when he
did not hear or answer her further talk that he
was musing of Polly—perhaps whether she was
wiser or not now.

Polly was touched by Maggie's longing to
see her again: " Dear old Maggie, she has
forgiven me at last," she said.

Polly arrived first at the place of their
appointment, and was sitting up-stairs in Miss
Wiggins's show-room when the Grange dog-cart
stopped at the door. She looked out with a
pale little emotional face, and the cruel wrench
at her heart; but no one looked up from below.
There was Bob dressed in mourning, and Maggie
and a little boy also in mourning, and a groom
behind, who assisted Maggie to alight, and
then lifted the child down and set him on the
pavement by her. Maggie took the boy by the
hand to enter the shop, and Bob drove off up
the street, and was out of sight before his sister
could mount the stairs. Polly stood fronting
the door, and as Maggie caught a view of her
she cried: "Bless thy bonnie face, Polly, it's
just the same as ever!" and they kissed with
all the old love that used to be between them.
And, of course, they cried a little together, until
the appearance of Miss Wiggins, intent on
business, obliged them to clear their countenances,
and take an interest in the fashions.

Maggie said she wanted nothing for herself,
but she would look at some children's spring
coats, and while Miss Wiggins was bringing
forth patterns, she called the child to her knees,
and taking off his hat, ruffled up his hair, and
asked Polly who he was like.

"He is like Bob," said Polly, and blushed
with soft surprise.

"It is Bob's son," replied Maggie. "Kiss
this pretty lady, Arty." Arty was nothing
loth, and Polly having supplied him with a box
of harmless sugar-plums from Miss Wiggins's
various stores, he sat on a stool at their feet and
was extremely content with his own society
while the friends talked in hushed and
interrupted tones.

"A hundred things have happened at the
Grange that I never told you of; but you may
have heard whispers? No! You know nothing
about it, then? You governesses live quite out
of the world, I suppose," said Maggie, and
paused.

"In a very quiet secluded little world of
our own," said Polly, and lifted up the child's
face to look at him again.