from time to time. Nor was this powerful temptation wholly unavailing: her eyes, furtively raised from her work, cast many a peep towards the writing-table, rich in scattered pictures. An etching of a child playing with a Blenheim spaniel happened to flutter to the floor.
"Pretty little dog!" said she, delighted.
Graham prudently took no notice. Ere long, stealing from her corner, she approached to examine the treasure more closely. The dog's great eyes and long ears, and the child's hat and feathers, were irresistible.
"Nice picture!" was her favorable criticism.
"Well—you may have it," said Graham.
She seemed to hesitate. The wish to possess was strong, but to accept would be a compromise of dignity. No. She put it down and turned away.
"You wont have it then, Polly?"
"I would rather not, thank you."
"Shall I tell you what I will do with the picture if you refuse it?"
She half turned to listen.
"Cut it into strips for lighting the taper."
"No!"
"But I shall."
"Please—don't."
Graham waxed inexorable on hearing the pleading tone; he took the scissors from his mother's work-casket.
"Here goes!" said he, making a menacing flourish. "Right through Fido's head, and splitting little Harry's nose."
"No! No! NO!"
"Then come to me. Come quickly, or it is done."
She hesitated, lingered, but complied.
"Now will you have it?" he asked, as she stood before him.
"Please."
"But I shall want payment.
"How much?"
"A kiss."
"Give the picture first into my hand."
Polly, as she said this, looked rather faithless in her turn. Graham gave it. She absconded a debtor, darted to her
