“That is downright silly,” was her impatient reply; and, indeed, I well knew that if she had heard Mrs. Bretton’s foot approach, she would have nestled quiet as a mouse under the bedclothes. Whilst lavishing her eccentricities regardlessly before me—for whom she professed scarcely the semblance of affection—she never showed my godmother one glimpse of her inner self: for her, she was nothing but a docile, somewhat quaint little maiden. I examined her; her cheek was crimson; her dilated eye was both troubled and glowing, and painfully restless: in this state it was obvious she must not be left till morning. I guessed how the case stood. “Would you like to bid Graham good-night again?” I asked. “He is not gone to his room yet.” She at once stretched out her little arms to be lifted. Folding a shawl round her, I carried her back to the drawing-room. Graham was just coming out. “She cannot sleep without seeing and speaking to you once more,” I said. “She does not like the thought of leaving you.” “I’ve spoilt her,” said he, taking her from me with good humour, and kissing her little hot face and burning lips. “Polly, you care for me more than for papa, now—” “I _do_ care for you, but you care nothing for me,” was her whisper. She was assured to the contrary, again kissed, restored to me, and I carried her away; but, alas! not soothed. When I thought she could listen to me, I said—“Paulina, you should not grieve that Graham does not care for you so much as you care for him. It must be so.” Her lifted and questioning eyes asked why. “Because he is a boy and you are a girl; he is sixteen and you are only six; his nature is strong and gay, and yours is otherwise.” “But I love him so much; he _should_ love me a little.” “He does. He is fond of you. You are his favourite.” “Am I Graham’s favourite?” “Yes, more than any little child I know.” The assurance soothed her; she smiled in her anguish. “But,” I continued, “don’t fret, and don’t expect too much of him, or else he will feel you to be troublesome, and then it is all over.” “All over!” she echoed softly; “then I’ll be good. I’ll try to be good, Lucy Snowe.” I put her to bed. “Will he forgive me this one time?” she asked, as I undressed myself. I assured her that he would; that as yet he was by no means alienated; that she had only to be careful for the future. “There is no future,” said she: “I am going. Shall I ever—ever—see him again, after I leave England?” I returned an encouraging response. The candle being extinguished, a still half-hour elapsed. I thought her asleep, when the little white shape once more lifted itself in the crib, and the small voice asked—“Do you like Graham, Miss Snowe?” “Like him! Yes, a little.” “Only a little! Do you like him as I do?” “I think not. No: not as you do.” “Do you like him much?” “I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so very much: he is full of faults.” “Is he?” “All boys are.” “More than girls?”