branch, they stopped, looking around them in alarm, but none of them as yet seeing the prone, slim figure, which was, indeed, almost covered by the grasses. Perfect stillness once more—the birds resumed their conversation, and the girl made another slight movement forward. This time she disturbed no twig, and interrupted none of the bird gossip. She was near, very near, a tempting green bough, and on the bough sat two full-grown lovely thrushes; they were not singing, but were holding a very gentle and affectionate conversation, sitting close together, and looking at one another out of their bright eyes, and now and then kissing each other with that loving little peck which means a great deal in bird life.

The girl felt her heart beating with excitement—the birds were within a few inches of her—she could see their breasts heaving as they talked. Her own eyes were as bright as theirs with excitement; she got quite under them, made a sudden upward, dexterous movement, and laid a warm, detaining hand on each thrush. The deed was done—the little prisoners were secured. She gave a low laugh of ecstasy, and sitting upright in the long grass, began gently to fondle her prey, cooing as she talked to them, and trying to coax the terrified little prisoners to accept some kisses from her dainty red lips.

“Poll! Where’s Polly Parrot?—Poll—Poll—Poll!” came a chorus of voices. “Poll, you’re wanted at the house this minute. Where are you hiding?—You’re wanted at home this minute! Polly Parrot—where are you, Polly?”

“Oh, bother!” exclaimed the girl under her breath; “then I must let you go, darlings, and I never, never had two of you in my arms at the same moment before. It’s always so. I’m always interrupted when I’m enjoying ecstasy. Well, good-by, sweets. Be happy—bless you, darlings!”

She blew a kiss to the released and delighted thrushes, and stood upright, looking very lanky and cross and disreputable, with bits of grass and twig sticking in her hair, and messing and staining her faded, washed cotton frock.

“Now, what are you up to, you scamps?—can’t you let a body be?”

“Oh, Polly!”

Two little figures came tumbling down the gravel walk at the other side of the wire fence. They were hot and panting, and both destitute of hats.

“Polly, you’re wanted at the house. Helen says so; there’s a b-b-baby come. Polly Perkins—Poll Parrot, you’d better come home at once, there’s a new b-b-baby just come!”

“A what?” said Polly. She vaulted the dyke, cleared the fence, and kneeling on the ground beside her two excited, panting little brothers, flung a hot, detaining arm round each.

“A baby! it isn’t true, Bunny? it isn’t true, Bob? A real live baby? Not a doll! a baby that will scream and wriggle up its face! But it can’t be. Oh, heavenly! oh, delicious! But it can’t be true, it can’t! You’re always making up stories, Bunny!”

“Not this time,” said Bunny. “You tell her, Bob—she’ll believe you. I heard it yelling—oh, didn’t it yell, just! And Helen came, and said to send Polly in. Helen was crying, I don’t know what about, and she said you were to go in at once. Why, what is the matter, Poll Parrot?”

“Nothing,” said Polly, “only you might have told me about Helen crying before. Helen never cries unless there’s something perfectly awful going to happen. Stay out in the garden, you two boys—make yourselves sick with gooseberries, if you like, only don’t come near the house, and don’t make the tiniest bit of noise. A new baby—and Helen crying! But mother—I’ll find out what it means from mother!”

Polly had long legs, and they bore her quickly in a swift race or canter to the house. When she approached the porch the dogs all got up in a body to meet her; there were seven or eight dogs, and they surrounded her, impeding her progress.

“Not a bark out of one of you,” she said, sternly, “lie down—go to sleep. If you even give a yelp I’ll come out by and by and beat you. Oh, Alice, what is it? What’s the matter?”

A maid servant was standing in the wide, square hall.

“What is it, Alice? What is wrong? There’s a new baby—I’m delighted at that. But why is Helen crying, and—oh!—oh!—what does it mean—you are crying, too, Alice.”

“It’s—Miss Polly, I can’t tell you,” began the girl. She threw her apron over her head, and sobbed loudly. “We didn’t know where you was, miss—it’s, it’s—We have been looking for you everywhere, miss. Why, Miss Polly, you’re as white, as white—Don’t take on now, miss, dear.”

“You needn’t say any more,” gasped Polly, sinking down into a garden chair. “I’m not going to faint, or do anything silly. And I’m not going to cry either. Where’s Helen? If there’s anything bad she’ll tell me. Oh, do stop making that horrid noise, Alice, you irritate me so dreadfully!”

Alice dashed out of the open door, and Polly heard her sobbing again, and talking frantically to the dogs. There was no other sound of any sort. The intense stillness of the house had a half-stunning, half-calming effect on the startled child. She rose, and walked slowly upstairs to the first landing.

“Polly,” said her sister Helen, “you’ve come at last. Where were you hiding?—oh, poor Polly!”

“Where’s mother?” said Polly. “I want her—let me go to her—let me go to her at once, Nell.”

“Oh, Polly——”

Helen’s sobs came now, loud, deep, and distressful. There was a new baby—but no mother for Polly any more.

Dr. Maybright had eight children, and the sweetest and most attractive wife of any man in the neighborhood. He had a considerable country practice, was popular among his patients, and he and his were adored by the villagers, for the Maybrights had lived in the neighborhood of the little village of Tyrsley Dale for many generations. Dr. Maybright’s father had ministered to the temporal wants of the fathers and mothers of these very same villagers; and his father before him had also been in the profession, and had done his best for the inhabitants of Tyrsley Dale. It was little wonder, therefore, that the simple folks who lived in the little antiquated village on the borders of one of our great southern moors should have thought that to the Maybrights alone of the whole race of mankind had been given the art of healing.

For three or four generations the Maybright family had lived at Sleepy Hollow, which was the name of the square gray house, with its large vegetable garden, its sheltered clump of forest trees, and its cultivated flower and pleasure grounds. Here, in the old nursery, Polly had first opened her bright blue-black eyes; in this house Dr. Maybright’s eight children had lived happily, and enjoyed all the sunshine of the happiest of happy childhoods to the full. They were all high-spirited and fearless; each child had a certain amount of individuality. Perhaps Polly was the naughtiest and the most peculiar; but her little spurt of insubordination speedily came to nothing, for mother, without ever being angry, or ever saying anything that could hurt Polly’s sensitive feelings, had always, with firm and gentle hand, put an extinguisher on them.

Mother was really, then, the life of the house. She was young to have such tall slips of daughters, and such little wild pickles of sons; and she was so pretty and so merry, and in such ecstasies over a picnic, and so childishly exultant when Helen, or Polly, or Katie, won a prize or did anything the least bit extraordinary, that she was voted the best playfellow in the