I had some thoughts of consoling her, and of improving the occasion by inculcating some of those maxims of philosophy whereof I had ever a tolerable stock ready for application. She stopped me, however, by putting her fingers in her ears at the first words I uttered, and then lying down on the mat with her face against the flags; nor could either Warren or the cook root her from that position: she was allowed to lie, therefore, till she chose to rise of her own accord. Graham forgot his impatience the same evening, and would have accosted her as usual when his friends were gone, but she wrenched herself from his hand; her eye quite flashed; she would not bid him good-night; she would not look in his face. The next day he treated her with indifference, and she grew like a bit of marble. The day after, he teased her to know what was the matter; her lips would not unclose. Of course he could not feel real anger on his side: the match was too unequal in every way; he tried soothing and coaxing. “Why was she so angry? What had he done?” By-and-by tears answered him; he petted her, and they were friends. But she was one on whom such incidents were not lost: I remarked that never after this rebuff did she seek him, or follow him, or in any way solicit his notice. I told her once to carry a book or some other article to Graham when he was shut up in his study. “I shall wait till he comes out,” said she, proudly; “I don’t choose to give him the trouble of rising to open the door.” Young Bretton had a favourite pony on which he often rode out; from the window she always watched his departure and return. It was her ambition to be permitted to have a ride round the courtyard on this pony; but far be it from her to ask such a favour. One day she descended to the yard to watch him dismount; as she leaned against the gate, the longing wish for the indulgence of a ride glittered in her eye. “Come, Polly, will you have a canter?” asked Graham, half carelessly. I suppose she thought he was _too_ careless. “No, thank you,” said she, turning away with the utmost coolness. “You’d better,” pursued he. “You will like it, I am sure.” “Don’t think I should care a fig about it,” was the response. “That is not true. You told Lucy Snowe you longed to have a ride.” “Lucy Snowe is a _tatter_-box,” I heard her say: (her imperfect articulation was the least precocious thing she had about her); and with this, she walked into the house. Graham coming in soon after, observed to his mother,—“Mamma, I believe that creature is a changeling: she is a perfect cabinet of oddities; but I should be dull without her; she amuses me a great deal more than you or Lucy Snowe.” “Miss Snowe,” said Paulina to me (she had now got into the habit of occasionally chatting with me when we were alone in our room at night), “do you know on what day in the week I like Graham best?”