'Indeed? I should like to know some of those thoughts,' with a playful glance at her downcast face. 'I must positively hear them, Polly. How sweet and still it is this evening. Suppose we sit and rest ourselves for a little while, and you shall tell me all about them.' Polly shook her head. 'They are not so easy to tell,' she said, looking very shy all at once. Dr. Heriot had placed her on a stile at the head of the little lane that skirted Podgill; the broad sunny meadow lay before them, gemmed with trefoil and Polly's favourite eyebright; blue gentian, and pink and white yarrow, and yellow ragwort, wove straggling colours in the tangled hedgerows; the graceful campanula, with its bell-like blossoms, gleamed here and there, towering above the lowlier rose-campion, while meadow-sweet and trails of honeysuckle scented the air. Dr. Heriot leant against the fence with folded arms; his mood was sunny and benignant. In his gray suit and straw hat he looked young, almost handsome. Under the dark moustache his lip curled with an amused, undefinable smile. 'I see you will want my help,' he said, with a sort of compassion and amusement at her shyness. Whatever she might own, his little fearless Polly was certainly afraid of him. 'I have tangled them dreadfully,' blushed Polly; 'the thoughts, I mean. Every night when I go to bed I wish--I wish I were as wise as Aunt Milly, and then perhaps I should satisfy you.' 'My dear child!' and then he stopped a little, amazed and perplexed. Why was Mildred Lambert's goodness to be ever thrust on him, he thought, with a man's natural impatience? He had not bent his neck to her mild sway; her friendship was very precious to him--one of the good things for which he daily thanked God; but this innocent harping on her name fretted him with a vague sense of injury. 'Polly, who has put this in your head?' he said; and there was a shadow of displeasure in his tone, quiet as it was. 'No one,' she returned, in surprise; 'the thought has often come to me. Are you never afraid,' she continued, timidly, but her young face grew all at once sweet and earnest--'are you not afraid that you will be tired--dreadfully tired--when you have only me to whom to talk?' Then his gravity relaxed: the speech was so like Polly,--so like his honest, simple-minded girl. 'And what if I were?' he repeated, playing with her fears. 'I should be so sorry,' she returned, seriously. 'No, I should be more than sorry; I think it would make me unhappy. I should always be trying to get older and wiser for your sake; and if I did not succeed I should be ready to break my heart. No, do not smile,' as she caught a glimpse of his amused face; 'I was never more serious in my life.' 'Why, Mary, my little darling, what is this?' he said, lifting the little hand to his lips; for the bright eyes were full of tears now. 'No, call me Polly--I like that best,' she returned, hurriedly. 'Only my father called me Mary; and from you----'