rneyman under Polly, and they built three stories high, four stories
high: even five.

"I say. Who do you think is coming?" asked Polly, rubbing her eyes after
tea.

He guessed: "The waiter?"

"No," said Polly, "the dustman. I am getting sleepy."

A new embarrassment for Barbox Brothers!

"I don't think I am going to be fetched to-night," said Polly; "what do
you think?"

He thought not, either. After another quarter of an hour, the dustman
not merely impending but actually arriving, recourse was had to the
Constantinopolitan chambermaid: who cheerily undertook that the child
should sleep in a comfortable and wholesome room, which she herself would
share.

"And I know you will be careful, won't you," said Barbox Brothers, as a
new fear dawned upon him, "that she don't fall out of bed."

Polly found this so highly entertaining that she was under the necessity
of clutching him round the neck with both arms as he sat on his footstool
picking up the cards, and rocking him to and fro, with her dimpled chin
on his shoulder.

"O what a coward you are, ain't you!" said Polly. "Do _you_ fall out of
bed?"

"N--not generally, Polly."

"No more do I."

With that, Polly gave him a reassuring hug or two to keep him going, and
then giving that confiding mite of a hand of hers to be swallowed up in
the hand of the Constantinopolitan chambermaid, trotted off, chattering,
without a vestige of anxiety.

He looked after her, had the screen removed and the table and chairs
replaced, and still looked after her. He paced the room for half an
hour. "A most engaging little creature, but it's not that. A most
winning little voice, but it's not that. That has much to do with it,
but there is something more. How can it be that I seem to know this
child? What was it she imperfectly recalled to me when I felt her touch
in the street, and, looking down at her, saw her looking up at me?"

"Mr. Jackson!"

With a start he turned towards the sound of the subdued voice, and saw
his answer standing at the door.

"O Mr. Jackson, do not be severe with me. Speak a word of encouragement
to me, I beseech you."

"You are Polly's mother."

"Yes."

Yes. Polly herself might come to this, one day. As you see what the
rose was, in its faded leaves; as you see what the summer growth of the
woods was, in their wintry branches; so Polly might be traced, one day,
in a care-worn woman like this, with her hair turned grey. Before hi