herself, as she curled herself up to read in earnest, now that her
excitement was over. "I needn't have tried to pose for them; that
sort of thing doesn't suit me; I'd better leave it to Florence."

It was with some misgiving, that Polly, two hours later, started
to take the familiar walk to the Hapgood house. Every riotous curl
was brushed until it lay close to her small head, but already the
golden ends were doing their best to break loose once more; thanks
to her mother's efforts, her burnished skin had lost a little of
its coppery lustre; and her fresh blue and white gingham gown was
as dainty and trim as loving hands could make it. But Polly, as
she looked in the glass before starting, only saw that her hair
was red, and that her freckles would insist on showing. However,
Alan's compliment came to her relief, and she dismissed the
question of her looks with a smile, as something not worth a
thought, and ran off down-stairs to say good by to her mother.

Alan saw her coming, and started to meet her.

"What's the matter, Alan?" she said, noticing his frown, as she
joined him.

"Nothing but a crick in my knee," he explained cheerfully; "I
think I took cold last night, perhaps. They're up-stairs with
Molly," he added vaguely. "I'll call them down, or will you go
up?"

"I'll wait here," said Polly, seating herself on the broad stone
step. "What are they like, Alan?"