“Mr. Walter Scott!” The rapture on Molly’s girlish face fully repaid Mrs. Bryce, who, whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love to give pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied. “Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and will be at Lady Hawthorn’s assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise of somebody that shall be worth seeing?” “Really and truly?” questioned Molly, half incredulously. “May we in truth hope to see Mr. Walter Scott himself to-night? That will be worth going for, were there naught else. Think, Polly, Mr. Walter Scott himself, that writ all about William of Deloraine and the ‘Fair Ladye Margaret of Branksome Hall.’” “You may count yourself a fortunate young woman, Molly,” complacently observed Mrs. Bryce. “At the early age of sixteen, not only to have a personal acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir John Moore, but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, the author of ‘Thalaba,’ as well as of Mr. Southey’s friend, Mr. William Wordsworth, and now to be brought face to face with Mr. Scott himself—I give you joy of such good fortune.” “And the last will be the best,” remarked Molly. “For I love the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel’ infinitely more than I love ‘Thalaba.’ Sure, ma’am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never yet been known.” “If the public voice be true, ’tis even so. Mr. Southey complains sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott’s poems go off by the myriad, and are read of all. I’m informed that Mr. Constable is this year paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not yet completed—a poem about a place that is called ‘Rokeby.’ And ten thousand people are on the look-out for its appearance. But now ’tis full time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best this night.” Polly was in no wise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her dainty self as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was of the simplest; and her short black hair was all but hidden under a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly’s abundant mane needed attention, though crowned with a fantastic hat, which carried lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ball-room equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers. Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile in her velvet eyes was in itself a sunbeam.