and he and Molly went away down the street, leaving Polly standing
alone at the gate. She looked after them until they disappeared in
the gathering darkness; then her curly head dropped on her folded
arms, and she began to sob with all the fervor of her impetuous,
affectionate nature. It was over in a minute or two, and no one
was the wiser for it but the birds in the tall elm trees above her
head. Then she turned forlornly, and started to walk to the house;
but, with Polly, the reaction always came quickly, and by the time
she reached the steps, she was humming the air which Alan had just
whistled, as she planned about the gown she would wear when she
went to see the cousins, and pictured to herself the details of
their first meeting. It was all so like Polly, to be in the depths
of grief at one moment, and to be singing the next. Her sorrows
were just as sincere as Molly's, while they lasted, but the very
intensity of them made it impossible for them to continue long at
a time. Polly's life was one of superlatives: when she was happy,
she was radiant; when she was unhappy, she was miserable. There
was no middle ground for her.

But to-night Polly was bent on beautifying herself. For Molly's
sake, as well as for her own, she was anxious to make a good
appearance in the eyes of the two girls whom she was to meet on
the morrow. The last thing before she went to her room, she
secretly visited the kitchen and helped herself to a generous bowl
of buttermilk, which she carried up stairs. She set it down on the
table and, lamp in hand, went to the mirror. In the main, Polly
was not a conceited girl, nor a vain one. On the contrary, she
thought little about her personal appearance, except to give an
occasional sigh over her hair and freckles. But, just now, it
seemed to her that beauty was the one thing to be desired, and