o account
for her. Still, as the first lumbering performance of a good-humoured
monster, it passed muster.

"I told you to be good," said Polly, "and you are good, ain't you?"

"I hope so," replied Barbox Brothers.

Such was his deference that Polly, elevated on a platform of
sofa-cushions in a chair at his right hand, encouraged him with a pat or
two on the face from the greasy bowl of her spoon, and even with a
gracious kiss. In getting on her feet upon her chair, however, to give
him this last reward, she toppled forward among the dishes, and caused
him to exclaim as he effected her rescue: "Gracious Angels! Whew! I
thought we were in the fire, Polly!"

"What a coward you are, ain't you?" said Polly, when replaced.

"Yes, I am rather nervous," he replied. "Whew! Don't, Polly! Don't
flourish your spoon, or you'll go over sideways. Don't tilt up your legs
when you laugh, Polly, or you'll go over backwards. Whew! Polly, Polly,
Polly," said Barbox Brothers, nearly succumbing to despair, "we are
environed with dangers!"

Indeed, he could descry no security from the pitfalls that were yawning
for Polly, but in proposing to her, after dinner, to sit upon a low
stool. "I will, if you will," said Polly. So, as peace of mind should
go before all, he begged the waiter to wheel aside the table, bring a
pack of cards, a couple of footstools, and a screen, and close in Polly
and himself before the fire, as it were in a snug room within the room.
Then, finest sight of all, was Barbox Brothers on his footstool, with a
pint decanter on the rug, contemplating Polly as she built successfully,
and growing blue in the face with holding his breath, lest he should blow
the house down.

"How you stare, don't you?" said Polly, in a houseless pause.

Detected in the ignoble fact, he felt obliged to admit, apologetically:
"I am afraid I was looking rather hard at you, Polly."

"Why do you stare?" asked Polly.

"I cannot," he murmured to himself, "recall why.--I don't know, Polly."

"You must be a simpleton to do things and not know why, mustn't you?"
said Polly.

In spite of which reproof, he looked at the child again, intently, as she
bent her head over her card-structure, her rich curls shading her face.
"It is impossible," he thought, "that I can ever have seen this pretty
baby before. Can I have dreamed of her? In some sorrowful dream?"

He could make nothing of it. So he went into the building trade as a
jou