Little Polly wiped her eyes after her happy thoughts; for the shower had passed, and the gleam of sunshine augmented till her face grew dimpled, and she went on stitching busily. It was very evident that she had some consolation--some pleasant unguent for the irritation caused by Aunt Lloyd; for at the end of half an hour she was singing away at some old Welsh ditty, in a sweet, bird-like voice, filling up, when she forgot the words, with a melodious little hum, which was only checked on the appearance of her tyrant, that lady mating occasional incursions. Sometimes Aunt Lloyd required table linen; then she came to unlock the press where the dessert was laid out, and hand it to the footman, counting the fruit on the dishes as she did so. "Now, Robert, what are you looking at there?" she said, sharply, as she caught the man's eyes straying in the direction of Polly. "Mind your work, if you please." Polly did not get snubbed, for she had been bending diligently over her stitching, which, as soon as the tray of dessert had gone, came in for a close inspection; but, as it was very neatly done, there was no complaint. "Hold out your hands, child," said Mrs Lloyd, suddenly; and she examined the finger roughened by the hard material and contact with the needle. "Ah, that stuffs too stiff; it shall be washed first. Mend those." The linen was doubled up, put away, and some soft material placed in the girl's hands, over which she had been diligently at work one hour, when Mrs Lloyd returned for coffee from her stores, with which she again departed, muttering about "Such a set to bring down!" and Polly's musical little voice began once more. Let's see: the dictionary says that an enchanter is one who calls down by chanting or singing--one who practises sorcery by song. Polly, then, must have been an enchantress, for her little ditty about the love of some deserted maid had the effect of bringing cousin Humphrey Lloyd through the shrubbery to the open window of the housekeeper's room; and just in the midst of one of the sweetest of the little trills there was a rustle amongst the laurels, and a deep voice whispered "Polly!" "Oh, my!" ejaculated Polly, dropping her work, and starting farther from the window. "What will aunt say?" Now, her instructions had been stringent; and knowing that it would be like high treason to speak to Humphrey, she determined that she would not, just as an industrious young needle, which had been warned not to get rusty by associating with common bits of steel, might have gone on busily through its work like the one Polly held in her hand. But supposing that, instead of a common piece of steel, a magnet that had been rubbed with the loadstone of love should come in its way, what could the poor needle do?