'Well, what of me, little one?' 'I do not know. It sounds so strange from your lips. It makes me feel afraid, somehow, as though I were grown up and quite old. I like the childish Polly best.' 'You shall be obeyed, dear--literally and entirely, I mean;' for he saw her agitation needed soothing. 'But Polly is not quite herself to-night; these fears and scruples are not like her. Let me hear all these troublesome thoughts, dearest; you know I am a safe confidant.' And encouraged by the gentleness of his tone, Polly crept close into the shelter of the kind arm that had been thrown round her. 'I don't think it hurts one to have fears,' she said, in her simple way; 'they seem to grow out of one's very happiness. You must not mind if I am afraid at times that I shall not always please you; it will only be because I want to do it so much.' 'There, you wound and heal in one breath,' he replied, half-laughing, and half-touched. 'It has come into my mind more than once that when we are alone together; when I come to take care of you; you know what I mean.' 'When you are my own sweet wife--I understand, Polly;' and now nothing could exceed the grave tenderness of his voice. 'Yes, when you bring me home to the fireside, which you say has been so lonely,' she returned, with touching frankness, at once childlike and womanly. 'When you have no one but me to comfort you, what if you find out too late that I am so young--so very young--that I have not all you want?' 'Polly--my own Polly!' 'Ah, you may call me that, and yet the disappointment may be bitter. You have been so good to me, I love you so dearly, that I could not bear to see a shade on your face, young as I am. I do not feel like a child about this.' 'No, you are not a child,' he returned, looking at her with new reverence in his eyes. In her earnestness she had forgotten her girlish shyness; her hands were clasped fearlessly on his arm, truth was written on her guileless face, her words rang in his ear with mingled pathos and purity. 'No, you are not a child,' he repeated, and then he stopped all of a sudden; his wooing had grown difficult to him. He had never liked her so well, he had never regarded her with such proud fondness, as now, when she pleaded with him for toleration of her undeveloped youth. For one swift instant a consciousness of the truth of her words struck home to him with a keen sense of pain, marring the pleasant harmony of his dream; but when, he looked at her again it was gone. And yet how was he to answer her? It was not petting fondness she wanted--not even ordinary love-speeches--only rest from an uneasy fear that harassed her repose--an assurance, mute or otherwise, that she was sufficient for his peace. If he understood her aright, this was what she wanted. 'Polly, I do not think you need to be afraid,' he said at last, hesitating strangely over his words. 'I understand you, my darling; I know what you mean; but I do not think you need be afraid.'