"My little Polly," he said once, "you live too retired a life; if you grow to be a woman with these shy manners, you will hardly be fitted for society. You really make quite a stranger of Dr. Bretton: how is this? Don't you remember that, as a little girl, you used to be rather partial to him."
"Rather, papa," echoed she, with her slightly dry, yet gentle and simple tone.
"And you don't like him now? What has he done?"
"Nothing. Y-e-s, I like him a little; but we are grown strange to each other."
"Then rub it off, Polly: rub the rust and the strangeness off. Talk away when he is here, and have no fear of him!"
"He does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think, papa?"
"Oh, to be sure! What man would not be afraid of such a little silent lady?"
"Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent. Say that it is my way, and that I have no unfriendly intention."
"Your way, you little chatter-box? So far from being your way, it is only your whim!"
