Pollie's eyes glistened. "Indeed I should," she answered earnestly. So it came to pass that before another week was out, Miss Mary Loveday, the vicar's niece, came up to the mill, and made acquaintance with Pollie, and obtained permission for Pollie to attend her class. And there sprang up between them a strong attachment, which bid fair to be lifelong. Thus, Pollie began her new life. She had written to her father to tell him about that wonderful Thursday, and the first time he had the opportunity, he invited her to drive to market with him. "So Pollie," he said, when the horse was well on its way, and they had left the village behind, "so you've come home a different girl!" "Yes, father," said Pollie, with her usual straightforward candour. "It's a solemn thing to take His name upon us," said her father. "It needs watching as well as praying, Pollie!" Pollie had not thought of that exactly. "How do you mean, father?" "Why you see 'tis like this, Pollie," said the miller, "we read a goodish bit about soldiers and armour and fighting and watching in the Bible, and many of us would as lief as not put on a sword and a helmet and a drum and march along to battle!" Pollie laughed a soft little laugh at her father's quaint way, in which he often lodged a thought in his children's hearts, which would not have got in perhaps in a long sermon. "And if Apollyon were to come to meet us, we should be very brave with our drum, and try to frighten him off, or fetch him a cut with our sword, and think to demolish him at a blow, eh, Pollie?" "I don't suppose the 'drum' would do much good," she answered smiling. "No; nor do I," said her father, smiling too. "But the fact is, Pollie, Apollyon doesn't come stalking along the road with fire coming out of his mouth! And the battle isn't out of doors on a wide plain, or even in a dark valley! It's at home, my child, in the mill and in the school and in the market, we have to face our foes. They come to some of us the first thing in the morning with— "'Pollie, mind you clear out "all" the ashes from the kitchen grate,' or 'Pollie, where's my hammer that you had last night?'" Pollie's head went down; how true that sounded; how like that very morning! "Or the battle-field may come to some of us like this—it may come in thoughts of worry, in cares for the future, in fretting over the low price flour fetches—half a dozen things—all invisible foes, but as bad as Apollyon nevertheless. "Or it may come to Jim in his sister's voice like this: 'Jim!' (sharp as a nettle sting) 'Jim! You haven't washed your hands for breakfast! Jim! You said you'd take that note to Miss Loveday, and you haven't!'" "Oh, father!" said Pollie in a low distressed tone.