prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER I.

BRETTON.

My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of
Bretton. Her husband's family had been residents there for generations,
and bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace--Bretton of Bretton:
whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been a
personage of sufficient importance to leave his name to his
neighbourhood, I know not.

When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well I
liked the visit. The house and its inmates specially suited me. The
large peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear wide
windows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antique street,
where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide--so quiet was its
atmosphere, so clean its pavement--these things pleased me well.

One child in a household of grown people is usually made very much of,
and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton,
who had been left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; her
husband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young and
handsome woman.

She was not young, as I remember her, but she was still handsome, tall,
well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always the
clearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity in a pair
of fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity that
she had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes were
blue--though, even in boyhood, very piercing--and the colour of his
long hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as the sun
shone on it, when they called it golden. He inherited the lines of his
mother's features, however; also her good teeth, her stature (or the
promise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, what was
better, her health without flaw, and her spirits of that tone and
equality which are better than a fortune to the possessor.

In the autumn of the year ---- I was staying at Bretton; my godmother
having come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that
time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw
events coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the
faint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad
to change scene and society.

Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's side; not with
tumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full river
through a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian
and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with "green trees on each
bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round." The charm
of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I liked
peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came
I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held
aloof.

One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused
Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from
home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication:
to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.

The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my
bedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in its
shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; and
in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood
chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.

"Of what are these things the signs and tokens?" I asked. The answer
was obvious. "A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other
visitors."

On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was
told, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and
distant relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This little girl, it was
added, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere
long subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.
Mrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but a
giddy, careless woman, who had neglected her child, and disappointed
and disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the union
proved, that separation at last ensued--separation by mutual consent,
not after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady having
over-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and died
after a very brief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of very
sensitive feelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too sudden
communication of the news, could hardly, it seems, now be persuaded but
that some over-severity on his part--some deficiency in patience and
indulgence--had contributed to hasten her end. He had brooded over this
idea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical men insisted
on travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton had
offered to take charge of his little girl. "And I hope," added my
godmother in conclusion, "the child will not be like her mamma; as
silly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensible man was weak enough
to marry. For," said she, "Mr. Home _is_ a sensible man in his way,
though not very practical: he is fond of science, and lives half his
life in a laboratory trying experiments--a thing his butterfly wife
could neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed" confessed my
godmother, "I should not have liked it myself."

In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her late
husband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from a
maternal uncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed French
and Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whom
more than one wrote _de_ before his name, and called himself noble.

That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet the
coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I sat
alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton being
absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the country.
My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed. It was a
wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angry and
restless.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. "What weather for
her journey! I wish she were safe here."

A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No sooner
was the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk
and some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and
at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his
arms.

"Is that the child?" I asked.

"Yes, miss."

I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, but
it was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.

"Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren opened the
drawing-room door, "and take off this shawl," continued the speaker,
extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious
haste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared made
a deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too heavy
and large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms. "Give it
to Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and she can put it away."
This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Bretton.

"Come here, little dear," said that lady. "Come and let me see if you
are cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire."

The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appeared
exceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,
light, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, she
looked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,
increased, I thought, the resemblance.

Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child's
hands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,
but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generally a
caressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner was
rarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small stranger
smiled at her, she kissed it, asking, "What is my little one's name?"

"Missy."

"But besides Missy?"

"Polly, papa calls her."

"Will Polly be content to live with me?"

"Not _always_; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away." She shook
her head expressively.

"He will return to Polly, or send for her."

"Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?"

"I think so."

"But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill."

Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made a
movement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she
said--"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool."

She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, she
carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated
herself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even a
peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the child
her way. She said to me, "Take no notice at present." But I did take
notice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee, her
head on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two of
pocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then I
heard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, without
shame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional sniff
testified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which was quite
as well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded--"May the
bell be rung for Harriet!"

I rang; the nurse was summoned and came.

"Harriet, I must be put to bed," said her little mistress. "You must
ask where my bed is."

Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry.

"Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet."

"No, Missy," said the nurse: "you are to share this young lady's room,"
designating me.

Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After some
minutes' silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner.

"I wish you, ma'am, good night," said she to Mrs. Bretton; but she
passed me mute.

"Good-night, Polly," I said.

"No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber," was
the reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heard
Harriet propose to carry her up-stairs. "No need," was again her
answer--"no need, no need:" and her small step toiled wearily up the
staircase.

On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. She
had arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in a
sitting posture: her hands, placed one within the other, rested quietly
on the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I abstained
from speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing the
light, I recommended her to lie down.

"By and by," was the answer.

"But you will take cold, Missy."

She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side,
and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased.
Listening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that she still
wept,--wept under restraint, quietly and cautiously.

On awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold!
there she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, with
pains and difficulty inclining the ewer (which she could not lift) so
as to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her as
she washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently she
was little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons,
strings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encountered
with a perseverance good to witness. She folded her night-dress, she
smoothed the drapery of her couch quite neatly; withdrawing into a
corner, where the sweep of the white curtain concealed her, she became
still. I half rose, and advanced my head to see how she was occupied.
On her knees, with her forehead bent on her hands, I perceived that she
was praying.

Her nurse tapped at the door. She started up.

"I am dressed, Harriet," said she; "I have dressed myself, but I do not
feel neat. Make me neat!"

"Why did you dress yourself, Missy?"

"Hush! speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking _the girl_" (meaning me,
who now lay with my eyes shut). "I dressed myself to learn, against the
time you leave me."

"Do you want me to go?"

"When you are cross, I have many a time wanted you to go, but not now.
Tie my sash straight; make my hair smooth, please."

"Your sash is straight enough. What a particular little body you are!"

"It must be tied again. Please to tie it."

"There, then. When I am gone you must get that young lady to dress you."

"On no account."

"Why? She is a very nice young lady. I hope you mean to behave prettily
to her, Missy, and not show your airs."

"She shall dress me on no account."

"Comical little thing!"

"You are not passing the comb straight through my hair, Harriet; the
line will be crooked."

"Ay, you are ill to please. Does that suit?"

"Pretty well. Where should I go now that I am dressed?"

"I will take you into the breakfast-room."

"Come, then."

They proceeded to the door. She stopped.

"Oh! Harriet, I wish this was papa's house! I don't know these people."

"Be a good child, Missy."

"I am good, but I ache here;" putting her hand to her heart, and
moaning while she reiterated, "Papa! papa!"

I roused myself and started up, to check this scene while it was yet
within bounds.

"Say good-morning to the young lady," dictated Harriet. She said,
"Good-morning," and then followed her nurse from the room. Harriet
temporarily left that same day, to go to her own friends, who lived in
the neighbourhood.

On descending, I found Paulina (the child called herself Polly, but her
full name was Paulina Mary) seated at the breakfast-table, by Mrs.
Bretton's side; a mug of milk stood before her, a morsel of bread
filled her hand, which lay passive on the table-cloth: she was not
eating.

"How we shall conciliate this little creature," said Mrs. Bretton to
me, "I don't know: she tastes nothing, and by her looks, she has not
slept."

I expressed my confidence in the effects of time and kindness.

"If she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house, she would soon
settle; but not till then," replied Mrs. Bretton.

CHAPTER II.

PAULINA.

Some days elapsed, and it appeared she was not likely to take much of a
fancy to anybody in the house. She was not exactly naughty or wilful:
she was far from disobedient; but an object less conducive to
comfort--to tranquillity even--than she presented, it was scarcely
possible to have before one's eyes. She moped: no grown person could
have performed that uncheering business better; no furrowed face of
adult exile, longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes, ever bore more
legibly the signs of home sickness than did her infant visage. She
seemed growing old and unearthly. I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless of
that curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but whenever,
opening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head in
her pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted.

And again, when of moonlight nights, on waking, I beheld her figure,
white and conspicuous in its night-dress, kneeling upright in bed, and
praying like some Catholic or Methodist enthusiast--some precocious
fanatic or untimely saint--I scarcely know what thoughts I had; but
they ran risk of being hardly more rational and healthy than that
child's mind must have been.

I seldom caught a word of her prayers, for they were whispered low:
sometimes, indeed, they were not whispered at all, but put up
unuttered; such rare sentences as reached my ear still bore the burden,
"Papa; my dear papa!" This, I perceived, was a one-idea'd nature;
betraying that monomaniac tendency I have ever thought the most
unfortunate with which man or woman can be cursed.

What might have been the end of this fretting, had it continued
unchecked, can only be conjectured: it received, however, a sudden turn.

One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from her usual station in a
corner, had lifted her into the window-seat, and, by way of occupying
her attention, told her to watch the passengers and count how many
ladies should go down the street in a given time. She had sat
listlessly, hardly looking, and not counting, when--my eye being fixed
on hers--I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration.
These sudden, dangerous natures--_sensitive_ as they are called--offer
many a curious spectacle to those whom a cooler temperament has secured
from participation in their angular vagaries. The fixed and heavy gaze
swum, trembled, then glittered in fire; the small, overcast brow
cleared; the trivial and dejected features lit up; the sad countenance
vanished, and in its place appeared a sudden eagerness, an intense
expectancy. "It _is_!" were her words.

Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone from the
room. How she got the house-door open I cannot tell; probably it might
be ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and obeyed her behest, which
would be impetuous enough. I--watching calmly from the window--saw her,
in her black frock and tiny braided apron (to pinafores she had an
antipathy), dart half the length of the street; and, as I was on the
point of turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton that the child
was run out mad, and ought instantly to be pursued, I saw her caught
up, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and from the wondering
stare of the passengers. A gentleman had done this good turn, and now,
covering her with his cloak, advanced to restore her to the house
whence he had seen her issue.

I concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and withdraw; but
he entered: having tarried a little while below, he came up-stairs.

His reception immediately explained that he was known to Mrs. Bretton.
She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she was fluttered,
surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner were even expostulatory;
and in reply to these, rather than her words, he said,--"I could not
help it, madam: I found it impossible to leave the country without
seeing with my own eyes how she settled."

"But you will unsettle her."

"I hope not. And how is papa's little Polly?"

This question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and placed her
gently on the ground before him.

"How is Polly's papa?" was the reply, as she leaned on his knee, and
gazed up into his face.

It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was thankful; but it
was a scene of feeling too brimful, and which, because the cup did not
foam up high or furiously overflow, only oppressed one the more. On all
occasions of vehement, unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain or
ridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have ever
felt most burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its own
will, a giant slave under the sway of good sense.

Mr. Home was a stern-featured--perhaps I should rather say, a
hard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his cheekbones were
marked and prominent. The character of his face was quite Scotch; but
there was feeling in his eye, and emotion in his now agitated
countenance. His northern accent in speaking harmonised with his
physiognomy. He was at once proud-looking and homely-looking. He laid
his hand on the child's uplifted head. She said--"Kiss Polly."

He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry, so that I
might get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully little noise: she
seemed to have got what she wanted--_all_ she wanted, and to be in a
trance of content. Neither in mien nor in features was this creature
like her sire, and yet she was of his strain: her mind had been filled
from his, as the cup from the flagon.

Indisputably, Mr. Home owned manly self-control, however he might
secretly feel on some matters. "Polly," he said, looking down on his
little girl, "go into the hall; you will see papa's great-coat lying on
a chair; put your hand into the pockets, you will find a
pocket-handkerchief there; bring it to me."

She obeyed; went and returned deftly and nimbly. He was talking to Mrs.
Bretton when she came back, and she waited with the handkerchief in her
hand. It was a picture, in its way, to see her, with her tiny stature,
and trim, neat shape, standing at his knee. Seeing that he continued to
talk, apparently unconscious of her return, she took his hand, opened
the unresisting fingers, insinuated into them the handkerchief, and
closed them upon it one by one. He still seemed not to see or to feel
her; but by-and-by, he lifted her to his knee; she nestled against him,
and though neither looked at nor spoke to the other for an hour
following, I suppose both were satisfied.

During tea, the minute thing's movements and behaviour gave, as usual,
full occupation to the eye. First she directed Warren, as he placed the
chairs.

"Put papa's chair here, and mine near it, between papa and Mrs.
Bretton: _I_ must hand his tea."

She took her own seat, and beckoned with her hand to her father.

"Be near me, as if we were at home, papa."

And again, as she intercepted his cup in passing, and would stir the
sugar, and put in the cream herself, "I always did it for you at home;
papa: nobody could do it as well, not even your own self."

Throughout the meal she continued her attentions: rather absurd they
were. The sugar-tongs were too wide for one of her hands, and she had
to use both in wielding them; the weight of the silver cream-ewer, the
bread-and-butter plates, the very cup and saucer, tasked her
insufficient strength and dexterity; but she would lift this, hand
that, and luckily contrived through it all to break nothing. Candidly
speaking, I thought her a little busy-body; but her father, blind like
other parents, seemed perfectly content to let her wait on him, and
even wonderfully soothed by her offices.

"She is my comfort!" he could not help saying to Mrs. Bretton. That
lady had her own "comfort" and nonpareil on a much larger scale, and,
for the moment, absent; so she sympathised with his foible.

This second "comfort" came on the stage in the course of the evening. I
knew this day had been fixed for his return, and was aware that Mrs.
Bretton had been expecting him through all its hours. We were seated
round the fire, after tea, when Graham joined our circle: I should
rather say, broke it up--for, of course, his arrival made a bustle; and
then, as Mr. Graham was fasting, there was refreshment to be provided.
He and Mr. Home met as old acquaintance; of the little girl he took no
notice for a time.

His meal over, and numerous questions from his mother answered, he
turned from the table to the hearth. Opposite where he had placed
himself was seated Mr. Home, and at his elbow, the child. When I say
_child_ I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term--a term
suggesting any picture rather than that of the demure little person in
a mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted a
good-sized doll--perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereon
was her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her hands
a shred of a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and at
which she bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingers seemed
almost a skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking the cambric
with a track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when the
perverse weapon--swerving from her control--inflicted a deeper stab
than usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed, womanly.

Graham was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking youth of sixteen.
I say faithless-looking, not because he was really of a very perfidious
disposition, but because the epithet strikes me as proper to describe
the fair, Celtic (not Saxon) character of his good looks; his waved
light auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent, and
destitute neither of fascination nor of subtlety (in no bad sense). A
spoiled, whimsical boy he was in those days.

"Mother," he said, after eyeing the little figure before him in silence
for some time, and when the temporary absence of Mr. Home from the room
relieved him from the half-laughing bashfulness, which was all he knew
of timidity---"Mother, I see a young lady in the present society to
whom I have not been introduced."

"Mr. Home's little girl, I suppose you mean," said his mother.

"Indeed, ma'am," replied her son, "I consider your expression of the
least ceremonious: Miss Home _I_ should certainly have said, in
venturing to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude."

"Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don't flatter yourself
that I shall suffer you to make her your butt."

"Miss Home," pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother's remonstrance,
"might I have the honour to introduce myself, since no one else seems
willing to render you and me that service? Your slave, John Graham
Bretton."

She looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She deliberately
put down thimble, scissors, work; descended with precaution from her
perch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, "How do you
do?"

"I have the honour to be in fair health, only in some measure fatigued
with a hurried journey. I hope, ma'am, I see you well?"

"Tor-rer-ably well," was the ambitious reply of the little woman and
she now essayed to regain her former elevation, but finding this could
not be done without some climbing and straining--a sacrifice of decorum
not to be thought of--and being utterly disdainful of aid in the
presence of a strange young gentleman, she relinquished the high chair
for a low stool: towards that low stool Graham drew in his chair.

"I hope, ma'am, the present residence, my mother's house, appears to
you a convenient place of abode?"

"Not par-tic-er-er-ly; I want to go home."

"A natural and laudable desire, ma'am; but one which, notwithstanding,
I shall do my best to oppose. I reckon on being able to get out of you
a little of that precious commodity called amusement, which mamma and
Mistress Snowe there fail to yield me."

"I shall have to go with papa soon: I shall not stay long at your
mother's."

"Yes, yes; you will stay with me, I am sure. I have a pony on which you
shall ride, and no end of books with pictures to show you."

"Are _you_ going to live here now?"

"I am. Does that please you? Do you like me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I think you queer."

"My face, ma'am?"

"Your face and all about you: You have long red hair."

"Auburn hair, if you please: mamma, calls it auburn, or golden, and so
do all her friends. But even with my 'long red hair'" (and he waved his
mane with a sort of triumph--tawny he himself well knew that it was,
and he was proud of the leonine hue), "I cannot possibly be queerer
than is your ladyship."

"You call me queer?"

"Certainly."

(After a pause), "I think I shall go to bed."

"A little thing like you ought to have been in bed many hours since;
but you probably sat up in the expectation of seeing me?"

"No, indeed."

"You certainly wished to enjoy the pleasure of my society. You knew I
was coming home, and would wait to have a look at me."

"I sat up for papa, and not for you."

"Very good, Miss Home. I am going to be a favourite: preferred before
papa soon, I daresay."

She wished Mrs. Bretton and myself good-night; she seemed hesitating
whether Graham's deserts entitled him to the same attention, when he
caught her up with one hand, and with that one hand held her poised
aloft above his head. She saw herself thus lifted up on high, in the
glass over the fireplace. The suddenness, the freedom, the disrespect
of the action were too much.

"For shame, Mr. Graham!" was her indignant cry, "put me down!"--and
when again on her feet, "I wonder what you would think of me if I were
to treat you in that way, lifting you with my hand" (raising that
mighty member) "as Warren lifts the little cat."

So saying, she departed.

CHAPTER III.

THE PLAYMATES.

Mr. Home stayed two days. During his visit he could not be prevailed on
to go out: he sat all day long by the fireside, sometimes silent,
sometimes receiving and answering Mrs. Bretton's chat, which was just
of the proper sort for a man in his morbid mood--not over-sympathetic,
yet not too uncongenial, sensible; and even with a touch of the
motherly--she was sufficiently his senior to be permitted this touch.

As to Paulina, the child was at once happy and mute, busy and watchful.
Her father frequently lifted her to his knee; she would sit there till
she felt or fancied he grew restless; then it was--"Papa, put me down;
I shall tire you with my weight."

And the mighty burden slid to the rug, and establishing itself on
carpet or stool just at "papa's" feet, the white work-box and the
scarlet-speckled handkerchief came into play. This handkerchief, it
seems, was intended as a keepsake for "papa," and must be finished
before his departure; consequently the demand on the sempstress's
industry (she accomplished about a score of stitches in half-an-hour)
was stringent.

The evening, by restoring Graham to the maternal roof (his days were
passed at school), brought us an accession of animation--a quality not
diminished by the nature of the scenes pretty sure to be enacted
between him and Miss Paulina.

A distant and haughty demeanour had been the result of the indignity
put upon her the first evening of his arrival: her usual answer, when
he addressed her, was--"I can't attend to you; I have other things to
think about." Being implored to state _what_ things:

"Business."

Graham would endeavour to seduce her attention by opening his desk and
displaying its multifarious contents: seals, bright sticks of wax,
pen-knives, with a miscellany of engravings--some of them gaily
coloured--which he had amassed from time to time. Nor was this powerful
temptation wholly unavailing: her eyes, furtively raised from her work,
cast many a peep towards the writing-table, rich in scattered pictures.
An etching of a child playing with a Blenheim spaniel happened to
flutter to the floor.

"Pretty little dog!" said she, delighted.

Graham prudently took no notice. Ere long, stealing from her corner,
she approached to examine the treasure more closely. The dog's great
eyes and long ears, and the child's hat and feathers, were irresistible.

"Nice picture!" was her favourable criticism.

"Well--you may have it," said Graham.

She seemed to hesitate. The wish to possess was strong, but to accept
would be a compromise of dignity. No. She put it down and turned away.

"You won't have it, then, Polly?"

"I would rather not, thank you."

"Shall I tell you what I will do with the picture if you refuse it?"

She half turned to listen.

"Cut it into strips for lighting the taper."

"No!"

"But I shall."

"Please--don't."

Graham waxed inexorable on hearing the pleading tone; he took the
scissors from his mother's work-basket.

"Here goes!" said he, making a menacing flourish. "Right through Fido's
head, and splitting little Harry's nose."

"No! _No!_ NO!"

"Then come to me. Come quickly, or it is done."

She hesitated, lingered, but complied.

"Now, will you have it?" he asked, as she stood before him.

"Please."

"But I shall want payment."

"How much?"

"A kiss."

"Give the picture first into my hand."

Polly, as she said this, looked rather faithless in her turn. Graham
gave it. She absconded a debtor, darted to her father, and took refuge
on his knee. Graham rose in mimic wrath and followed. She buried her
face in Mr. Home's waistcoat.

"Papa--papa--send him away!"

"I'll not be sent away," said Graham.

With face still averted, she held out her hand to keep him off.

"Then, I shall kiss the hand," said he; but that moment it became a
miniature fist, and dealt him payment in a small coin that was not
kisses.

Graham--not failing in his way to be as wily as his little
playmate--retreated apparently quite discomfited; he flung himself on a
sofa, and resting his head against the cushion, lay like one in pain.
Polly, finding him silent, presently peeped at him. His eyes and face
were covered with his hands. She turned on her father's knee, and gazed
at her foe anxiously and long. Graham groaned.

"Papa, what is the matter?" she whispered.

"You had better ask him, Polly."

"Is he hurt?" (groan second.)

"He makes a noise as if he were," said Mr. Home.

"Mother," suggested Graham, feebly, "I think you had better send for
the doctor. Oh my eye!" (renewed silence, broken only by sighs from
Graham.)

"If I were to become blind----?" suggested this last.

His chastiser could not bear the suggestion. She was beside him
directly.

"Let me see your eye: I did not mean to touch it, only your mouth; and
I did not think I hit so _very_ hard."

Silence answered her. Her features worked,--"I am sorry; I am sorry!"

Then succeeded emotion, faltering; weeping.

"Have done trying that child, Graham," said Mrs. Bretton.

"It is all nonsense, my pet," cried Mr. Home.

And Graham once more snatched her aloft, and she again punished him;
and while she pulled his lion's locks, termed him--"The naughtiest,
rudest, worst, untruest person that ever was."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morning of Mr. Home's departure, he and his daughter had some
conversation in a window-recess by themselves; I heard part of it.

"Couldn't I pack my box and go with you, papa?" she whispered earnestly.

He shook his head.

"Should I be a trouble to you?"

"Yes, Polly."

"Because I am little?"

"Because you are little and tender. It is only great, strong people
that should travel. But don't look sad, my little girl; it breaks my
heart. Papa, will soon come back to his Polly."

"Indeed, indeed, I am not sad, scarcely at all."

"Polly would be sorry to give papa pain; would she not?"

"Sorrier than sorry."

"Then Polly must be cheerful: not cry at parting; not fret afterwards.
She must look forward to meeting again, and try to be happy meanwhile.
Can she do this?"

"She will try."

"I see she will. Farewell, then. It is time to go."

"_Now_?--just _now_?

"Just now."

She held up quivering lips. Her father sobbed, but she, I remarked, did
not. Having put her down, he shook hands with the rest present, and
departed.

When the street-door closed, she dropped on her knees at a chair with a
cry--"Papa!"

It was low and long; a sort of "Why hast thou forsaken me?" During an
ensuing space of some minutes, I perceived she endured agony. She went
through, in that brief interval of her infant life, emotions such as
some never feel; it was in her constitution: she would have more of
such instants if she lived. Nobody spoke. Mrs. Bretton, being a mother,
shed a tear or two. Graham, who was writing, lifted up his eyes and
gazed at her. I, Lucy Snowe, was calm.

The little creature, thus left unharassed, did for herself what none
other could do--contended with an intolerable feeling; and, ere long,
in some degree, repressed it. That day she would accept solace from
none; nor the next day: she grew more passive afterwards.

On the third evening, as she sat on the floor, worn and quiet, Graham,
coming in, took her up gently, without a word. She did not resist: she
rather nestled in his arms, as if weary. When he sat down, she laid her
head against him; in a few minutes she slept; he carried her upstairs
to bed. I was not surprised that, the next morning, the first thing she
demanded was, "Where is Mr. Graham?"

It happened that Graham was not coming to the breakfast-table; he had
some exercises to write for that morning's class, and had requested his
mother to send a cup of tea into the study. Polly volunteered to carry
it: she must be busy about something, look after somebody. The cup was
entrusted to her; for, if restless, she was also careful. As the study
was opposite the breakfast-room, the doors facing across the passage,
my eye followed her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pausing on the threshold.

"Writing," said Graham.

"Why don't you come to take breakfast with your mamma?"

"Too busy."

"Do you want any breakfast?"

"Of course."

"There, then."

And she deposited the cup on the carpet, like a jailor putting a
prisoner's pitcher of water through his cell-door, and retreated.
Presently she returned.

"What will you have besides tea--what to eat?"

"Anything good. Bring me something particularly nice; that's a kind
little woman."

She came back to Mrs. Bretton.

"Please, ma'am, send your boy something good."

"You shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my boy have?"

She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table; and, ere
long, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which was
not there. Having got it, however, (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair
nothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies;
promising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be his
housekeeper, and perhaps--if she showed any culinary genius--his cook;
and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I found
Graham and her breakfasting _tete-a-tete_--she standing at his elbow,
and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which she delicately
refused to touch, lest, I suppose, it should appear that she had
procured it as much on her own account as his. She constantly evinced
these nice perceptions and delicate instincts.

The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastily
dissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstances
served rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the two were
in age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to
each other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little character never
properly came out, except with young Bretton. As she got settled, and
accustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs. Bretton;
but she would sit on a stool at that lady's feet all day long, learning
her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencil on a slate, and
never kindling once to originality, or showing a single gleam of the
peculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch her under such
circumstances: she was not interesting. But the moment Graham's knock
sounded of an evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head
of the staircase. Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a threat.

"You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell your
mamma."

"Little busybody! Are you there?"

"Yes--and you can't reach me: I am higher up than you" (peeping between
the rails of the banister; she could not look over them).

"Polly!"

"My dear boy!" (such was one of her terms for him, adopted in imitation
of his mother.)

"I am fit to faint with fatigue," declared Graham, leaning against the
passage-wall in seeming exhaustion. "Dr. Digby" (the headmaster) "has
quite knocked me up with overwork. Just come down and help me to carry
up my books."

"Ah! you're cunning!"

"Not at all, Polly--it is positive fact. I'm as weak as a rush. Come
down."

"Your eyes are quiet like the cat's, but you'll spring."

"Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn't in me. Come down."

"Perhaps I may--if you'll promise not to touch--not to snatch me up,
and not to whirl me round."

"I? I couldn't do it!" (sinking into a chair.)

"Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off"

This being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes from the
feeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to new and
spasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she
would be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and
we could hear her say as she led him up-stairs: "Now, my dear boy, come
and take your tea--I am sure you must want something."

It was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham,
while he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, but
with him the most officious, fidgety little body possible. I often
wished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no--herself was
forgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, nor
carefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk in her
estimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates before him,
and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was within his
reach, she would find out something else: "Ma'am," she would whisper to
Mrs. Bretton,--"perhaps your son would like a little cake--sweet cake,
you know--there is some in there" (pointing to the sideboard cupboard).
Mrs. Bretton, as a rule, disapproved of sweet cake at tea, but still
the request was urged,--"One little piece--only for him--as he goes to
school: girls--such as me and Miss Snowe--don't need treats, but _he_
would like it."

Graham did like it very well, and almost always got it. To do him
justice, he would have shared his prize with her to whom he owed it;
but that was never allowed: to insist, was to ruffle her for the
evening. To stand by his knee, and monopolize his talk and notice, was
the reward she wanted--not a share of the cake.

With curious readiness did she adapt herself to such themes as
interested him. One would have thought the child had no mind or life of
her own, but must necessarily live, move, and have her being in
another: now that her father was taken from her, she nestled to Graham,
and seemed to feel by his feelings: to exist in his existence. She
learned the names of all his schoolfellows in a trice: she got by heart
their characters as given from his lips: a single description of an
individual seemed to suffice. She never forgot, or confused identities:
she would talk with him the whole evening about people she had never
seen, and appear completely to realise their aspect, manners, and
dispositions. Some she learned to mimic: an under-master, who was an
aversion of young Bretton's, had, it seems, some peculiarities, which
she caught up in a moment from Graham's representation, and rehearsed
for his amusement; this, however, Mrs. Bretton disapproved and forbade.

The pair seldom quarrelled; yet once a rupture occurred, in which her
feelings received a severe shock.

One day Graham, on the occasion of his birthday, had some friends--lads
of his own age--to dine with him. Paulina took much interest in the
coming of these friends; she had frequently heard of them; they were
amongst those of whom Graham oftenest spoke. After dinner, the young
gentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, where they soon
became very merry and made a good deal of noise. Chancing to pass
through the hall, I found Paulina sitting alone on the lowest step of
the staircase, her eyes fixed on the glossy panels of the dining-room
door, where the reflection of the hall-lamp was shining; her little
brow knit in anxious, meditation.

"What are you thinking about, Polly?"

"Nothing particular; only I wish that door was clear glass--that I
might see through it. The boys seem very cheerful, and I want to go to
them: I want to be with Graham, and watch his friends."

"What hinders you from going?"

"I feel afraid: but may I try, do you think? May I knock at the door,
and ask to be let in?"

I thought perhaps they might not object to have her as a playmate, and
therefore encouraged the attempt.

She knocked--too faintly at first to be heard, but on a second essay
the door unclosed; Graham's head appeared; he looked in high spirits,
but impatient.

"What do you want, you little monkey?"

"To come to you."

"Do you indeed? As if I would be troubled with you! Away to mamma and
Mistress Snowe, and tell them to put you to bed." The auburn head and
bright flushed face vanished,--the door shut peremptorily. She was
stunned.

"Why does he speak so? He never spoke so before," she said in
consternation. "What have I done?"

"Nothing, Polly; but Graham is busy with his school-friends."

"And he likes them better than me! He turns me away now they are here!"

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?"

"How can I possibly know anything so strange? Is there one day out of
the seven when he is otherwise than on the other six?"

"To be sure! Can't you see? Don't you know? I find him the most
excellent on a Sunday; then we have him the whole day, and he is quiet,
and, in the evening, _so_ kind."

This observation was not altogether groundless: going to church, &c.,
kept Graham quiet on the Sunday, and the evening he generally dedicated
to a serene, though rather indolent sort of enjoyment by the parlour
fireside. He would take possession of the couch, and then he would call
Polly.

Graham was a boy not quite as other boys are; all his delight did not
lie in action: he was capable of some intervals of contemplation; he
could take a pleasure too in reading, nor was his selection of books
wholly indiscriminate: there were glimmerings of characteristic
preference, and even of instinctive taste in the choice. He rarely, it
is true, remarked on what he read, but I have seen him sit and think of
it.

Polly, being near him, kneeling on a little cushion or the carpet, a
conversation would begin in murmurs, not inaudible, though subdued. I
caught a snatch of their tenor now and then; and, in truth, some
influence better and finer than that of every day, seemed to soothe
Graham at such times into no ungentle mood.

"Have you learned any hymns this week, Polly?"

"I have learned a very pretty one, four verses long. Shall I say it?"

"Speak nicely, then: don't be in a hurry."

The hymn being rehearsed, or rather half-chanted, in a little singing
voice, Graham would take exceptions at the manner, and proceed to give
a lesson in recitation. She was quick in learning, apt in imitating;
and, besides, her pleasure was to please Graham: she proved a ready
scholar. To the hymn would succeed some reading--perhaps a chapter in
the Bible; correction was seldom required here, for the child could
read any simple narrative chapter very well; and, when the subject was
such as she could understand and take an interest in, her expression
and emphasis were something remarkable. Joseph cast into the pit; the
calling of Samuel; Daniel in the lions' den;--these were favourite
passages: of the first especially she seemed perfectly to feel the
pathos.

"Poor Jacob!" she would sometimes say, with quivering lips. "How he
loved his son Joseph! As much," she once added--"as much, Graham, as I
love you: if you were to die" (and she re-opened the book, sought the
verse, and read), "I should refuse to be comforted, and go down into
the grave to you mourning."

With these words she gathered Graham in her little arms, drawing his
long-tressed head towards her. The action, I remember, struck me as
strangely rash; exciting the feeling one might experience on seeing an
animal dangerous by nature, and but half-tamed by art, too heedlessly
fondled. Not that I feared Graham would hurt, or very roughly check
her; but I thought she ran risk of incurring such a careless, impatient
repulse, as would be worse almost to her than a blow. On the whole,
however, these demonstrations were borne passively: sometimes even a
sort of complacent wonder at her earnest partiality would smile not
unkindly in his eyes. Once he said:--"You like me almost as well as if
you were my little sister, Polly."

"Oh! I _do_ like you," said she; "I _do_ like you very much."

I was not long allowed the amusement of this study of character. She
had scarcely been at Bretton two months, when a letter came from Mr.
Home, signifying that he was now settled amongst his maternal kinsfolk
on the Continent; that, as England was become wholly distasteful to
him, he had no thoughts of returning hither, perhaps, for years; and
that he wished his little girl to join him immediately.

"I wonder how she will take this news?" said Mrs. Bretton, when she had
read the letter. _I_ wondered, too, and I took upon myself to
communicate it.

Repairing to the drawing-room--in which calm and decorated apartment
she was fond of being alone, and where she could be implicitly trusted,
for she fingered nothing, or rather soiled nothing she fingered--I
found her seated, like a little Odalisque, on a couch, half shaded by
the drooping draperies of the window near. She seemed happy; all her
appliances for occupation were about her; the white wood workbox, a
shred or two of muslin, an end or two of ribbon collected for
conversion into doll-millinery. The doll, duly night-capped and
night-gowned, lay in its cradle; she was rocking it to sleep, with an
air of the most perfect faith in its possession of sentient and
somnolent faculties; her eyes, at the same time, being engaged with a
picture-book, which lay open on her lap.

"Miss Snowe," said she in a whisper, "this is a wonderful book.
Candace" (the doll, christened by Graham; for, indeed, its begrimed
complexion gave it much of an Ethiopian aspect)--"Candace is asleep
now, and I may tell you about it; only we must both speak low, lest she
should waken. This book was given me by Graham; it tells about distant
countries, a long, long way from England, which no traveller can reach
without sailing thousands of miles over the sea. Wild men live in these
countries, Miss Snowe, who wear clothes different from ours: indeed,
some of them wear scarcely any clothes, for the sake of being cool, you
know; for they have very hot weather. Here is a picture of thousands
gathered in a desolate place--a plain, spread with sand--round a man in
black,--a good, _good_ Englishman--a missionary, who is preaching to
them under a palm-tree." (She showed a little coloured cut to that
effect.) "And here are pictures" (she went on) "more stranger" (grammar
was occasionally forgotten) "than that. There is the wonderful Great
Wall of China; here is a Chinese lady, with a foot littler than mine.
There is a wild horse of Tartary; and here, most strange of all--is a
land of ice and snow, without green fields, woods, or gardens. In this
land, they found some mammoth bones: there are no mammoths now. You
don't know what it was; but I can tell you, because Graham told me. A
mighty, goblin creature, as high as this room, and as long as the hall;
but not a fierce, flesh-eating thing, Graham thinks. He believes, if I
met one in a forest, it would not kill me, unless I came quite in its
way; when it would trample me down amongst the bushes, as I might tread
on a grasshopper in a hayfield without knowing it."

Thus she rambled on.

"Polly," I interrupted, "should you like to travel?"

"Not just yet," was the prudent answer; "but perhaps in twenty years,
when I am grown a woman, as tall as Mrs. Bretton, I may travel with
Graham. We intend going to Switzerland, and climbing Mount Blanck; and
some day we shall sail over to South America, and walk to the top of
Kim-kim-borazo."

"But how would you like to travel now, if your papa was with you?"

Her reply--not given till after a pause--evinced one of those
unexpected turns of temper peculiar to her.

"Where is the good of talking in that silly way?" said she. "Why do you
mention papa? What is papa to you? I was just beginning to be happy,
and not think about him so much; and there it will be all to do over
again!"

Her lip trembled. I hastened to disclose the fact of a letter having
been received, and to mention the directions given that she and Harriet
should immediately rejoin this dear papa. "Now, Polly, are you not
glad?" I added.

She made no answer. She dropped her book and ceased to rock her doll;
she gazed at me with gravity and earnestness.

"Shall not you like to go to papa?"

"Of course," she said at last in that trenchant manner she usually
employed in speaking to me; and which was quite different from that she
used with Mrs. Bretton, and different again from the one dedicated to
Graham. I wished to ascertain more of what she thought but no: she
would converse no more. Hastening to Mrs. Bretton, she questioned her,
and received the confirmation of my news. The weight and importance of
these tidings kept her perfectly serious the whole day. In the evening,
at the moment Graham's entrance was heard below, I found her at my
side. She began to arrange a locket-ribbon about my neck, she displaced
and replaced the comb in my hair; while thus busied, Graham entered.

"Tell him by-and-by," she whispered; "tell him I am going."

In the course of tea-time I made the desired communication. Graham, it
chanced, was at that time greatly preoccupied about some school-prize,
for which he was competing. The news had to be told twice before it
took proper hold of his attention, and even then he dwelt on it but
momently.

"Polly going? What a pity! Dear little Mousie, I shall be sorry to lose
her: she must come to us again, mamma."

And hastily swallowing his tea, he took a candle and a small table to
himself and his books, and was soon buried in study.

"Little Mousie" crept to his side, and lay down on the carpet at his
feet, her face to the floor; mute and motionless she kept that post and
position till bed-time. Once I saw Graham--wholly unconscious of her
proximity--push her with his restless foot. She receded an inch or two.
A minute after one little hand stole out from beneath her face, to
which it had been pressed, and softly caressed the heedless foot. When
summoned by her nurse she rose and departed very obediently, having bid
us all a subdued good-night.

I will not say that I dreaded going to bed, an hour later; yet I
certainly went with an unquiet anticipation that I should find that
child in no peaceful sleep. The forewarning of my instinct was but
fulfilled, when I discovered her, all cold and vigilant, perched like a
white bird on the outside of the bed. I scarcely knew how to accost
her; she was not to be managed like another child. She, however,
accosted me. As I closed the door, and put the light on the
dressing-table, she turned to me with these words:--"I cannot--_cannot_
sleep; and in this way I cannot--_cannot_ live!"

I asked what ailed her.

"Dedful miz-er-y!" said she, with her piteous lisp.

"Shall I call Mrs. Bretton?"

"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?"

"Very likely. Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect; and
as to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, and worship
none."

"Are you a wise person?"

"I mean to try to be so. Go to sleep."

"I _cannot_ go to sleep. Have you no pain just here" (laying her elfish
hand on her elfish breast,) "when you think _you_ shall have to leave
Graham; for _your_ home is not here?"

"Surely, Polly," said I, "you should not feel so much pain when you are
very soon going to rejoin your father. Have you forgotten him? Do you
no longer wish to be his little companion?"

Dead silence succeeded this question.

"Child, lie down and sleep," I urged.

"My bed is cold," said she. "I can't warm it."

I saw the little thing shiver. "Come to me," I said, wishing, yet
scarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was a most strange,
capricious, little creature, and especially whimsical with me. She
came, however, instantly, like a small ghost gliding over the carpet. I
took her in. She was chill: I warmed her in my arms. She trembled
nervously; I soothed her. Thus tranquillized and cherished she at last
slumbered.

"A very unique child," thought I, as I viewed her sleeping countenance
by the fitful moonlight, and cautiously and softly wiped her glittering
eyelids and her wet cheeks with my handkerchief. "How will she get
through this world, or battle with this life? How will she bear the
shocks and repulses, the humiliations and desolations, which books, and
my own reason, tell me are prepared for all flesh?"

She departed the next day; trembling like a leaf when she took leave,
but exercising self-command.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Volume One begins rather cryptically. The reader meets a first-person narrator, but practically nothing about the person telling the story is imparted. Everything must be drawn from context. Lucy Snowe, we learn, is a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl whose godmother has a "handsome house in the clean and ancient town of Bretton." Lucy Snowe visits this godmother twice a year, staying with her alone, without any of her own family. Only later is it clear that this town of Bretton is actually in England. This godmother, whose name is the same as the town in which she lives, has a teenaged son. Lucy likes staying in the house of the Brettons well enough, but she does not seem to expect love or general favor from the family, just to be tolerated in a genteel way. While Lucy is there on a visit, a letter arrives for Mrs. Bretton which upsets that lady. When Lucy returns to her room, there is a new small, white crib in it. A little girl who is to be Lucy's roommate is a relative of Mrs. Bretton's dead husband, Dr. Bretton. Her name is Paulina Mary Home, and she is to stay with the Brettons while her widowed father makes arrangements abroad. Mrs. Home had been a pretty and vain woman who had neglected Polly. Mrs. Home separated from Mr. Home and, having gotten a fever after a ball, died. This child, Polly, the product of neglect and a broken home, is hoped by Mrs. Bretton "not to be like her mama." Her devastated father is prescribed travel by his doctor to heal his frayed nerves and, it is said, his blameless but still guilty conscience. The child arrives late at night and immediately shows her imperious nature by ordering servants around. She is tiny, very neat, and has the appearance of a doll. It becomes clear that she is to live for a time at the Brettons until Mr. Home can send for her. Polly does not seem to take a liking to Lucy, apparently because she does not like her appearance and Lucy appears to have no gaiety or frivolity. The little girl, understandably, weeps and does not sleep, and in the morning she orders about her nursemaid quite tyrannically. She again voices her dislike of Lucy. Polly cries out to her nurse that she is aching in her heart for her absent Papa. The child does not eat at breakfast, and Mrs. Bretton and Lucy confer about what is to be done for her. Lucy counsels time and kindness, and Mrs. Bretton replies that all will be well when little Polly takes to someone in the house. In Chapter II, Polly continues to mope, and she is shown to have the most unusual combination of a tiny and childlike appearance and many of the affectations of a grown person. She is very still, rather than active like many children of six, and a girl who stays up at night praying. Lucy immediately begins to think that this little girl's mind cannot be completely healthy. Polly, not surprisingly, has a monomaniacal fascination and yearning for the return of her father. Lucy observes Polly looking out the window and makes the judgment that Polly's nature is "sudden, dangerous," or "sensitive," because she witnesses the moment when Polly sees her much-awaited father approaching the Bretton house. Polly's rapt attention and frantic rush to meet her father show her single-minded personality. When Mr. Home arrives at the Brettons, Polly does not avert her attention from him even for a minute. Mr. Graham Bretton, Mrs. Bretton's only son, arrives. Throughout this time, little Polly sits doll-like and unnatural, earnestly hemming a little handkerchief she is making for her father. Lucy finds Polly's behavior to be exceedingly strange and almost unnervingly adult in a child so small and young. Because of her possessiveness of her father, Lucy thinks Polly is a busybody. Graham is described by Lucy as "handsome, faithless-looking." He is sixteen, auburn-haired, and well-grown. He is somewhat spoiled by his mother and is a bit of a tyrant with his friends. He teases Polly a little bit, and they are introduced to each other as "Mr. Bretton" and "Miss Home" and bow and curtsey with the utmost formality. Graham engages in a bit of bantering flirtation with Polly, which the little girl counters with amazingly womanly skill. Lucy watches, mutely. Graham, before the little girl goes off to bed, asserts that he will be Polly's favorite soon, and he has the effrontery to say that Polly will favor him over her own father. In Chapter III, "The Playmates," Mr. Home leaves his little Polly, who is devastated at his departure. There are assurances that, when a house for them is settled, she will be called for. While Mr. Home is still at the Brettons', Polly has only haughty disdain for the playful overtures of Graham's attentions. At his departure, Mr. Home instructs Polly to be strong and not mope about, but as they have their final embrace Mr. Home weeps. Lucy notes that Polly, surprisingly, does not. When he is finally gone, Lucy watches Polly have a silent and intense paroxysm of grief, and Lucy thinks that, since Polly's nature is so sensitive, she will have many such extremes of emotion in her future life. After a few days of silent grief, Graham makes a tender overture to her, and it appears that he will become the person to whom her affections will be transferred. They become very close, and they continue their flirtatious playing during the rest of Polly's stay, with Graham alternating between the admiring suitor and the teasing young man, and Polly alternating between solicitous womanly attentions to him and coquettish disdain. Lucy observes that Polly's sole object is to monopolize the attention of Graham--to the extent that she, while still maintaining some dignity, seems to live solely for his regard. Graham, while vacillating between giving her attention and being busy with his own pursuits and friends, declares her an "oddity," but also determines that she amuses him a great deal more than his mother or Lucy Snowe does. At the end of two months, Polly's father sends word that she is to come to live with him in Europe. Paulina's affections have been transferred to Graham to such an extent that she is very aggrieved to be leaving him. Graham has no such compunction and rather insensitively makes little of their farewell. Lucy, who is kind to Polly although the child has no semblance of affection for her, brings Polly out from bed to say another goodbye to Graham, whom, she cries, "cares nothing for her." Lucy, who is of a philosophical turn of mind, explains that Polly cannot expect the same kind of regard from Graham as she has for him: not only is he a boy and she a girl, but he is sixteen and she is only six. Graham has a nature of strength and gaiety, and Polly's nature is sensitive and can be melancholic. Polly is assured that, if Graham has any favorite child that he knows, it is Polly, and she must be content with that. Polly, who is wakeful with grief, this one night sleeps in the same bed as Lucy, feeling somewhat comforted. Polly asks Lucy if she is a wise person to give such advice, and Lucy says that she means to try to be wise. Polly finally goes to sleep, and she leaves the house early the next morning.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER IV.

MISS MARCHMONT.

On quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina's
departure--little thinking then I was never again to visit it; never
more to tread its calm old streets--I betook myself home, having been
absent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad to
return to the bosom of my kindred. Well! the amiable conjecture does no
harm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far from saying
nay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for the next eight
years, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in a harbour still
as glass--the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to
heaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a long prayer. A great
many women and girls are supposed to pass their lives something in that
fashion; why not I with the rest?

Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on a
cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes
indolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, I
must somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreck
at last. I too well remember a time--a long time--of cold, of danger,
of contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the
rush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure
on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hour
nor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared;
we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavy
tempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. In
fine, the ship was lost, the crew perished.

As far as I recollect, I complained to no one about these troubles.
Indeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lost
sight. Impediments, raised by others, had, years ago, come in the way
of our intercourse, and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changes
for her, too: the handsome property of which she was left guardian for
her son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stock
undertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original
amount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted a
profession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and were
understood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility of
dependence on others; to myself alone could I look. I know not that I
was of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertion
were forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands
besides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood,
sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign me
some task I could undertake.

Miss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a handsome
residence; but she was a rheumatic cripple, impotent, foot and hand,
and had been so for twenty years. She always sat upstairs: her
drawing-room adjoined her bed-room. I had often heard of Miss
Marchmont, and of her peculiarities (she had the character of being
very eccentric), but till now had never seen her. I found her a
furrowed, grey-haired woman, grave with solitude, stern with long
affliction, irritable also, and perhaps exacting. It seemed that a
maid, or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years, was
about to be married; and she, hearing of my bereaved lot, had sent for
me, with the idea that I might supply this person's place. She made the
proposal to me after tea, as she and I sat alone by her fireside.

"It will not be an easy life;" said she candidly, "for I require a good
deal of attention, and you will be much confined; yet, perhaps,
contrasted with the existence you have lately led, it may appear
tolerable."

I reflected. Of course it ought to appear tolerable, I argued inwardly;
but somehow, by some strange fatality, it would not. To live here, in
this close room, the watcher of suffering--sometimes, perhaps, the butt
of temper--through all that was to come of my youth; while all that was
gone had passed, to say the least, not blissfully! My heart sunk one
moment, then it revived; for though I forced myself to _realise_ evils,
I think I was too prosaic to _idealise_, and consequently to exaggerate
them.

"My doubt is whether I should have strength for the undertaking," I
observed.

"That is my own scruple," said she; "for you look a worn-out creature."

So I did. I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning-dress, a faded,
hollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle. The
blight, I believed, was chiefly external: I still felt life at life's
sources.

"What else have you in view--anything?"

"Nothing clear as yet: but I may find something."

"So you imagine: perhaps you are right. Try your own method, then; and
if it does not succeed, test mine. The chance I have offered shall be
left open to you for three months."

This was kind. I told her so, and expressed my gratitude. While I was
speaking, a paroxysm of pain came on. I ministered to her; made the
necessary applications, according to her directions, and, by the time
she was relieved, a sort of intimacy was already formed between us. I,
for my part, had learned from the manner in which she bore this attack,
that she was a firm, patient woman (patient under physical pain, though
sometimes perhaps excitable under long mental canker); and she, from
the good-will with which I succoured her, discovered that she could
influence my sympathies (such as they were). She sent for me the next
day; for five or six successive days she claimed my company. Closer
acquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities,
opened, at the same time, a view of a character I could respect. Stern
and even morose as she sometimes was, I could wait on her and sit
beside her with that calm which always blesses us when we are sensible
that our manners, presence, contact, please and soothe the persons we
serve. Even when she scolded me--which she did, now and then, very
tartly--it was in such a way as did not humiliate, and left no sting;
it was rather like an irascible mother rating her daughter, than a
harsh mistress lecturing a dependant: lecture, indeed, she could not,
though she could occasionally storm. Moreover, a vein of reason ever
ran through her passion: she was logical even when fierce. Ere long a
growing sense of attachment began to present the thought of staying
with her as companion in quite a new light; in another week I had
agreed to remain.

Two hot, close rooms thus became my world; and a crippled old woman, my
mistress, my friend, my all. Her service was my duty--her pain, my
suffering--her relief, my hope--her anger, my punishment--her regard,
my reward. I forgot that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, an
ever-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sick
chamber; I was almost content to forget it. All within me became
narrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, I
demanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite needed no more than the
tiny messes served for the invalid. In addition, she gave me the
originality of her character to study: the steadiness of her virtues, I
will add, the power of her passions, to admire; the truth of her
feelings to trust. All these things she had, and for these things I
clung to her.

For these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, if
for twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. But
another decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated into action.
I must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy. My little morsel of
human affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt
in my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My small
adopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented conscience. I
had wanted to compromise with Fate: to escape occasional great agonies
by submitting to a whole life of privation and small pains. Fate would
not so be pacified; nor would Providence sanction this shrinking sloth
and cowardly indolence.

One February night--I remember it well--there came a voice near Miss
Marchmont's house, heard by every inmate, but translated, perhaps, only
by one. After a calm winter, storms were ushering in the spring. I had
put Miss Marchmont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing. The wind was
wailing at the windows; it had wailed all day; but, as night deepened,
it took a new tone--an accent keen, piercing, almost articulate to the
ear; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate to the nerves, trilled in every
gust.

"Oh, hush! hush!" I said in my disturbed mind, dropping my work, and
making a vain effort to stop my ears against that subtle, searching
cry. I had heard that very voice ere this, and compulsory observation
had forced on me a theory as to what it boded. Three times in the
course of my life, events had taught me that these strange accents in
the storm--this restless, hopeless cry--denote a coming state of the
atmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed, were
often heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, long-lamenting east
wind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied,
too, I had noticed--but was not philosopher enough to know whether
there was any connection between the circumstances--that we often at
the same time hear of disturbed volcanic action in distant parts of the
world; of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks; and of strange
high tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. "Our globe," I had
said to myself, "seems at such periods torn and disordered; the feeble
amongst us wither in her distempered breath, rushing hot from steaming
volcanoes."

I listened and trembled; Miss Marchmont slept.

About midnight, the storm in one half-hour fell to a dead calm. The
fire, which had been burning dead, glowed up vividly. I felt the air
change, and become keen. Raising blind and curtain, I looked out, and
saw in the stars the keen sparkle of a sharp frost.

Turning away, the object that met my eyes was Miss Marchmont awake,
lifting her head from the pillow, and regarding me with unusual
earnestness.

"Is it a fine night?" she asked.

I replied in the affirmative.

"I thought so," she said; "for I feel so strong, so well. Raise me. I
feel young to-night," she continued: "young, light-hearted, and happy.
What if my complaint be about to take a turn, and I am yet destined to
enjoy health? It would be a miracle!"

"And these are not the days of miracles," I thought to myself, and
wondered to hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversation to
the past, and seeming to recall its incidents, scenes, and personages,
with singular vividness.

"I love Memory to-night," she said: "I prize her as my best friend. She
is just now giving me a deep delight: she is bringing back to my heart,
in warm and beautiful life, realities--not mere empty ideas, but what
were once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved,
mixed in with grave-mould. I possess just now the hours, the thoughts,
the hopes of my youth. I renew the love of my life--its only
love--almost its only affection; for I am not a particularly good
woman: I am not amiable. Yet I have had my feelings, strong and
concentrated; and these feelings had their object; which, in its single
self, was dear to me, as to the majority of men and women, are all the
unnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. While I loved,
and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What a glorious
year I can recall--how bright it comes back to me! What a living
spring--what a warm, glad summer--what soft moonlight, silvering the
autumn evenings--what strength of hope under the ice-bound waters and
frost-hoar fields of that year's winter! Through that year my heart
lived with Frank's heart. O my noble Frank--my faithful Frank--my
_good_ Frank! so much better than myself--his standard in all things so
much higher! This I can now see and say: if few women have suffered as
I did in his loss, few have enjoyed what I did in his love. It was a
far better kind of love than common; I had no doubts about it or him:
it was such a love as honoured, protected, and elevated, no less than
it gladdened her to whom it was given. Let me now ask, just at this
moment, when my mind is so strangely clear,--let me reflect why it was
taken from me? For what crime was I condemned, after twelve months of
bliss, to undergo thirty years of sorrow?

"I do not know," she continued after a pause: "I cannot--_cannot_ see
the reason; yet at this hour I can say with sincerity, what I never
tried to say before, Inscrutable God, Thy will be done! And at this
moment I can believe that death will restore me to Frank. I never
believed it till now."

"He is dead, then?" I inquired in a low voice.

"My dear girl," she said, "one happy Christmas Eve I dressed and
decorated myself, expecting my lover, very soon to be my husband, would
come that night to visit me. I sat down to wait. Once more I see that
moment--I see the snow twilight stealing through the window over which
the curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride up the
white walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playing on my
silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in a glass. I
see the moon of a calm winter night, float full, clear, and cold, over
the inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of my grounds. I
wait, with some impatience in my pulse, but no doubt in my breast. The
flames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet; the moon was
mounting high, but she was still visible from the lattice; the clock
neared ten; he rarely tarried later than this, but once or twice he had
been delayed so long.

"Would he for once fail me? No--not even for once; and now he was
coming--and coming fast--to atone for lost time. 'Frank! you furious
rider,' I said inwardly, listening gladly, yet anxiously, to his
approaching gallop, 'you shall be rebuked for this: I will tell you it
is _my_ neck you are putting in peril; for whatever is yours is, in a
dearer and tenderer sense, mine.' There he was: I saw him; but I think
tears were in my eyes, my sight was so confused. I saw the horse; I
heard it stamp--I saw at least a mass; I heard a clamour. _Was_ it a
horse? or what heavy, dragging thing was it, crossing, strangely dark,
the lawn. How could I name that thing in the moonlight before me? or
how could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul?

"I could only run out. A great animal--truly, Frank's black
horse--stood trembling, panting, snorting before the door; a man held
it, Frank, as I thought.

"'What is the matter?' I demanded. Thomas, my own servant, answered by
saying sharply, 'Go into the house, madam.' And then calling to another
servant, who came hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned by some
instinct, 'Ruth, take missis into the house directly.' But I was
kneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there--something
that I had seen dragged along the ground--something that sighed, that
groaned on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to me. He was not dead;
he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to be
ordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not
only to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begun
by trying to treat me like a child, as they always do with people
struck by God's hand; but I gave place to none except the surgeon; and
when he had done what he could, I took my dying Frank to myself. He had
strength to fold me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; he
heard me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderly and
fondly comforted him.

"'Maria,' he said, 'I am dying in Paradise.' He spent his last breath
in faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, my
Frank was with God.

"And that," she went on, "happened thirty years ago. I have suffered
since. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities. Soft,
amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong, evil
spirits they would have made demons; as for me, I have only been a
woe-struck and selfish woman."

"You have done much good," I said; for she was noted for her liberal
almsgiving.

"I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could assuage
affliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang to give. But I
think from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind, to
prepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frank
more than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving the
creature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at least
blasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do you
think, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain, and tell me."

This question I could not answer: I had no words. It seemed as if she
thought I _had_ answered it.

"Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but not
always for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whatever it
be, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well,
to-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour to
do something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when I am
dead. My head aches now with talking too much; still I am happy. Go to
bed. The clock strikes two. How late you sit up; or rather how late I,
in my selfishness, keep you up. But go now; have no more anxiety for
me; I feel I shall rest well."

She composed herself as if to slumber. I, too, retired to my crib in a
closet within her room. The night passed in quietness; quietly her doom
must at last have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morning she
was found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her
previous excitement of spirits and change of mood had been the prelude
of a fit; one stroke sufficed to sever the thread of an existence so
long fretted by affliction.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: "Miss Marchmont," takes an abrupt leap forward in time. There is a strange monologue at the beginning of the chapter, alluding to the literary convention that heroines in novels live happy childhoods, or at least have long stretches of protected and easy domesticity. But in the most general of terms-without naming any specific people, places, or events-Lucy Snowe intimates that, since her girlhood visits to the house of the Brettons, her life has been difficult, sad, and even tragic. It is not known whom she lived with or in what circumstances they lived, other than the fact that Lucy is of the educated classes and not the daughter of servants or laborers. Lucy urges the reader to imagine her "basking" in the happiness of a good childhood, but she makes clear that this was not the case. The narrator is at pains to reveal nothing other than that Lucy has suffered. When or how Lucy's parents died or, perhaps, disowned her, leaving her with little or no money, is not explained. The reader knows only that Lucy has suffered at least one family death, for she wears a mourning dress. It is known, however vaguely and obliquely, that before that death and Lucy's current status as a poor, genteel young woman with no family or friends, there was some sort of emotional suffering or neglect in her life. But Lucy is cagey and reveals nothing, and the reader can only imagine what might have happened. The Brettons have fallen upon harder times, too. The property Mrs. Bretton held in trust for her son has fallen to a fraction of its value, and the mother and son now live in London. Lucy knows that she cannot appeal to them for any kind of help. Miss Marchmont is introduced. She is a "woman of fortune" who lives in the neighborhood where Lucy is now destitute. She is a paralyzed invalid who cannot stir from her sickroom. She offers Lucy the position of nurse-companion, a hard job but one that is at least socially acceptable for an educated young lady. Lucy is loath to accept it at first, though she desperately needs a job, because she understands how limiting it would be both emotionally and physically for her. Lucy thinks perhaps that she may find some other employment to suit her better. For the next few days Miss Marchmont requests that Lucy come to visit her, and during that time Lucy forms respect for and attachment to the invalid's patient suffering. The respect is such that Lucy decides to take Miss Marchmont's offer. One night there is a terrible storm, which Lucy thinks portends death or change. That night Miss Marchmont is excitable and tells Lucy the tragic story of her youth. She was engaged to be married to a man she deeply loved. This man, Frank, was riding to see her one Christmas Eve, but he fell from his horse and was dragged to her door. Frank died in Miss Marchmont's arms. She says that she hopes soon to be reunited with Frank, and that night Miss Marchmont dies. Lucy is very affected by the story of Frank's death, and she mourns Miss Marchmont bitterly, for she was her only friend on earth. The reader is now led to believe, through her dying words, that Miss Marchmont may have left a fortune for Lucy upon her death. But Miss Marchmont had not made any such provision before she died, so Lucy, after having experienced another death of a person dear to her, will be thrust again on the world in much the same state of poverty as before. The next chapter finds Lucy nearing the end of her stay at Miss Marchmont's. The heir to her estate , Miss Marchmont's second cousin, pays Lucy her wages, and Lucy is to find her way in the world as the possessor of fifteen pounds. Lucy is worn but still has intact health, and she is now in need of employment and a place to live. Lucy goes to visit an old servant of her family, a housekeeper who is working at a large estate nearby. During the interview Lucy catches sight of a daughter of the house, an old school friend of hers. She does not speak to the woman, but she notes that this woman retains a French nurse for her child. The housekeeper informs Lucy that English governesses, too, are in demand abroad, where they are quite well-paid and well-treated. During this passage it becomes clear that Lucy was a good student. But in a moment of unreliability, Lucy makes us think that at this point in the narrative her command of French is good, for she critiques her old school friend's French. Lucy resolves to go to London, which is not far distant. She stays at an old, respectable inn that had been used by her uncles. Upon arriving in the metropolis, Lucy is a bit bewildered, but she endeavors to keep a calm and quiet demeanor. Her shabby clothing, worn looks, and insignificant presence do not impress the smart-looking servants at this hotel, but she eventually persuades them by her speech and ladylike words to sufficiently provide for her needs. Then she goes to her own room and cries herself to sleep, wondering what she will do and how she will make her way in this world