She looked up in his face pleadingly as she said this; she spoke in a voice sweet, but slightly foreign, but with a certain high-bred accent, and there was something unique in her whole appearance that struck her guardian with surprise. The figure was slight and undeveloped, with the irregularity of fourteen; but the ordinary awkwardness of girlhood was replaced by dignity, almost grace, of movement. She was dark-complexioned, but her face was a perfect oval, and the slight down on the upper lip gave a characteristic but not unpleasing expression to the mouth, which was firm but flexible; the hair had evidently been cut off in recent illness, for it was tucked smoothly behind the ears, and was perfectly short behind, which would have given her a boyish look but for the extreme delicacy of the whole contour. 'You have come to take me home, have you not?' she repeated anxiously. 'This lady has,' he replied, with a look at Mildred, who had stood modestly in the background. 'I wish I had a home to offer you, my dear; but my wife is dead, and----' 'Then you will want me all the more,' she returned eagerly. 'Papa and I have so often talked about you; he told me how good you were, and how unhappy.' 'Hush, Mary,' laying his hand lightly over her lips; but Mildred could see his colour changed painfully. But she interrupted him a little petulantly-- 'Nobody calls me Mary, and it sounds so cold and strange.' 'What then, my dear?' 'Why, Polly, of course!' opening her brown eyes widely; 'I have always been Polly--always.' 'It shall be as you will, my child.' 'How gently you speak! Are you ever irritable, like papa, I wonder?--he used to be so ill and silent, and then, when we tried to rouse him, he could not bear it. Who is this lady, and why do you say you have no home for me?' 'She means to be our good friend, Polly--there, will that do? But you are such a dignified young lady, I should never have ventured to call you that unasked.' 'Why not?' she repeated, darting at him a clear, straightforward glance. Evidently his reticence ruffled her; but Dr. Heriot skilfully evaded the brief awkwardness. 'This lady is Miss Lambert, and she is the sister of one of my best friends; she is going to take charge of his girls and boys, who have lost their mother, and she has kindly offered to take charge of you too.' 'She is very good,' returned Polly, coldly; 'very, very good, I mean,' as though she had repented of a slight hauteur. 'But I have never had anything to do with children. Papa and I were always alone, and I would much rather live with you; you have no idea what a housekeeper I shall make you. I can dress salad and cook _omelettes_, and Nanette taught me how to make _potage_. I used to take a large basket myself to the market when we lived at Dresden, when Nanette was so bad with rheumatism.' 'What an astonishing Polly!' 'Ah! you are laughing at me,' drawing herself up proudly, and turning away so that he should not see the tears in her eyes.