Mrs.Bretton was not generally a caressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner was rarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small stranger smiled at her, she kissed it, asking, "What is my little one's name ?" "Missy." "But besides Missy ?" "Polly, papa calls her." "Will Polly be content to live with me ?" "Not _always_; but till papa comes home.

Papa is gone away." She shook her head expressively.
"He will return to Polly, or send for her." "Will he, ma'am?
Do you know he will ?" "I think so." "But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while.

He is ill." Her eyes filled.

She drew her hand from Mrs.Bretton's and made a movement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she said--"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool." She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, she carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated herself.

Mrs.Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even a peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the child her way.