"Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?"

"I think so."

"But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill."

Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made a
movement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she said--
"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool."

She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool,
she carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated
herself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even
a peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the
child her way. She said to me, "Take no notice at present." But I did
take notice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee,
her head on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two of
pocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then I
heard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, without
shame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional sniff
testified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which was
quite as well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded--
"May the bell be rung for Harriet!"

I rang; the nurse was summoned and came.

"Harriet, I must be put to bed," said her little mistress. "You must
ask where my bed is."