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.