"Belle has got a virtuous fit; pity it won't last a week," said Trix.
"Wait and see," retorted Belle, resolving that it should last, just to disappoint "that spiteful minx," as she sweetly called her old school-mate.
"Now we shall behold Belle galloping away at a great pace, on her new hobby. I shouldn't be surprised to hear of her preaching in the jail, adopting a nice dirty little orphan, or passing round tracts at a Woman's Rights meeting," said Trix, who never could forgive Belle for having a lovely complexion, and so much hair of her own, that she never patronized either rats, mice, waterfalls, switches or puff combs.
"Well, I might do worse; and I think, of the two, I'd rather amuse myself so, than as some young ladies do, who get into the papers for their pranks," returned Belle, with a moral air.
"Suppose we have a little recess, and rest while Polly plays to us. Will you, Polly? It will do us good; they all want to hear you, and begged I'd ask."
"Then I will, with pleasure"; and Polly went to the piano with such obliging readiness, that several reproachful glances fell upon Trix, who didn't need her glass to see them.
Polly was never too sad, perturbed, or lazy, to sing, for it was almost as easy to her as breathing, and seemed the most natural outlet for her emotions. For a minute her hands wandered over the keys, as if uncertain what to play; then, falling into a sad, sweet strain, she sang "The Bridge of Sighs." Polly didn't know why she chose it, but the instinct seemed
