At home, Polly ran and rode, coasted and skated, jumped rope and raked hay, worked in her garden and rowed her boat; so no wonder she longed for something more lively than a daily promenade with a flock of giddy girls, who tilted along in high-heeled boots, and costumes which made Polly ashamed to be seen with some of them.

So she used to slip out alone sometimes, when Fanny was absorbed in novels, company, or millinery, and get fine brisk walks round the park, on the unfashionable side, where the babies took their airings; or she went inside, to watch the boys coasting, and to wish she could coast too, as she did at home.

She never went far, and always came back rosy and gay.
One afternoon, just before dinner, she felt so tired of doing nothing, that she slipped out for a run.

It had been a dull day; but the sun was visible now, setting brightly below the clouds.

It was cold but still and Polly trotted down the smooth, snow-covered mall humming to herself, and trying not to feel homesick.