"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-