I was wrong in this matter. Nothing was now clearer to me than this. But, how was I to get right? That was the puzzling question. I thought, and thought--looking at the difficulty first on this side, and then on that. No way of escape presented itself, except through some open or implied acknowledgment of wrong; that is, I must have some plain, kind talk with Polly, to begin with, and thus show her, by an entire change of manner, that I was conscious of having spoken to her in a way that was not met by my own self-approval. Pride was not slow in vindicating her own position among the mental powers. She was not willing to see me humble myself to a servant. Polly had given notice that she was going to leave, and if I made concession, she would, at once conclude that I did so meanly, from self-interest, because I wished to retain her services. My naturally independent spirit revolted under this view of the case, but I marshalled some of the better forces of my mind, and took the field bravely on the side of right and duty. For some time the conflict went on; then the better elements of my nature gained the victory. When the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly. I saw, as she entered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the fire had died out in her eyes. Her face was pale, and its expression sad, but enduring. "Polly," said I, kindly, "sit down. I would like to have some talk with you." The girl seemed taken by surprise. Her face warmed a little, and her eyes, which had been turned aside from mine, looked at me with a glance of inquiry. "There, Polly"--and I pointed to a chair--"sit down." She obeyed, but with a weary, patient air, like one whose feelings were painfully oppressed. "Polly," said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, "has anything troubled you of late?" Her face flushed and her eyes reddened. "If there has, Polly, and I can help you in any way, speak to me as a friend. You can trust me." I was not prepared for the sudden and strong emotion that instantly manifested itself. Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed out, with a violence that startled me. I waited until she grew calm, and then said, laying a hand kindly upon her as I spoke-- "Polly, you can talk to me as freely as if I were your mother. Speak plainly, and if I can advise you or aid you in any way, be sure that I will do it." "I don't think you can help me any, ma'am, unless it is to bear my trouble more patiently," she answered, in a subdued way. "Trouble, child! What trouble? Has anything gone wrong with you?" The manner in which this inquiry was made, aroused her, and she said quickly and with feeling: "Wrong with _me_? O no, ma'am!" "But you are in trouble, Polly." "Not for myself, ma'am--not for myself," was her earnest reply. "For whom, then, Polly?" The girl did not answer for some moments. Then with a long, deep sigh, she said: