She carried a yearling infant in her arms, and with one hand pressed its pale flaxen poll against the rich, ripe corn of her own hair, as if to dare comparison.

Her cheeks were of a delicate rose pink.
"My love," said Turnham--and one felt that the word was no mere flower of speech.

"My love, here is someone who wishes to marry our Polly." "To marry our Polly ?" echoed the lady, and smiled a faint, amused smile--it was as though she said: to marry this infant that I bear on my arm.

"But Polly is only a little girl!" "My very words, dearest.

And too young to know her own mind." "But you will decide for her, John." John hung over his beautiful wife, wheeled up an easy chair, arranged her in it, placed a footstool.