but made no answer. It was repeated a little louder, and then a low pleasing voice she had never heard before said, "May I come in?"

"No," said Josephine,—"yes—that is—who are you?"

"Polly Dill," was the answer; and Josephine arose and unlocked the door.

"Miss Barrington told me I might take this liberty," said Polly, with a faint smile. "She said, 'Go and make acquaintance for yourself; I never play master of the ceremonies.'"

"And you are Polly,—the Polly Dill I have heard so much of?" said Josephine, regarding her steadily and fixedly.

"How stranded your friends must have been for a topic when they talked of me!" said Polly, laughing.

"It is quite true you have beautiful teeth,—I never saw such beautiful teeth," said Josephine to herself, while she still gazed earnestly at her.

"And you," said Polly, "are so like what I had pictured you,—what I hoped you would be. I find it hard to believe I see you for the first time."

"So, then, you did not think the Rajah's daughter should be a Moor?" said Josephine, half haughtily. "It is very sad to see what disappointments I had caused." Neither the saucy toss of the head, nor the tone that accompanied these words, were lost upon Polly, who began to feel at once that she understood the speaker.

"And your brother," continued Josephine, "is the famous Tom Dill I have heard such stories about?"

"Poor Tom! he is anything rather than famous."

"Well, he is remarkable; he is odd, original, or whatever you would call it. Fred told me he never met any one like him."

"Tom might say as much of Mr. Conyers, for, in truth, no one ever showed him such kindness."

"Fred told me nothing of that; but perhaps," added she, with a flashing eye, "you were more in his confidence than I was."

"I knew very little of Mr. Conyers; I believe I could count on the fingers of one hand every time I met him."

"How strange that you should have made so deep an impression, Miss Dill!"

"I am flattered to hear it, but more surprised than flattered."

"But I don't wonder at it in the least," said Josephine, boldly. "You are very handsome, you are very graceful, and then—" She hesitated and grew confused, and stammered, and at last said, "and then there is that about you which seems to say, 'I have only to wish, and I can do it.'"

"I have no such gift, I assure you," said Polly, with a half-sad smile.

"Oh, I know you are very clever; I have heard how accomplished you were, how beautifully you rode, how charmingly you sang. I wish he had not told me of it all—for if—for if—"

"If what? Say on!"

"If you were not so superior to me, I feel that I could love you;" and then with a bound she threw her arms around Polly's neck, and clasped her affectionately to her bosom.

Sympathy, like a fashionable physician, is wonderfully successful where there is little the matter. In the great ills of life, when the real afflictions come down to crush, to wound, or to stun us, we are comparatively removed from even the kindest of our comforters. Great sorrows are very selfish things. In the lighter maladies, however, in the smaller casualties of fortune, sympathy is a great remedy, and we are certain to find that, however various our temperaments, it has a sort of specific for each. Now Josephine Barrington had not any great cares upon her heart; if the balance were to be struck between them, Polly Dill could have numbered ten, ay, twenty, for her one, but she thought hers was a case for much commiseration, and she liked commiseration, for there are moral hypochondrias as well as physical ones. And so she told Polly how she had neither father nor mother, nor any other belongings than "dear old grandpapa and austere Aunt Dinah;" that she had been brought up in a convent, never knowing one of the pleasures of youth, or her mind being permitted to stray beyond the dreary routine of prayer and penance. Of music she knew nothing but the solemn chants of the organ, and even flowers were to her eyes but the festal decorations of the high altar; and, lastly, she vaguely balanced between going back to the dismal existence of the cloister, or entering upon the troubled sea of life, so full of perils to one unpractised and unskilled as she was. Now Polly was a very pretty comforter through these afflictions; her own home experiences were not all rose-colored, but the physician who whispers honeyed consolations to the patient has often the painful consciousness of a deeper malady within than that for which he ministers. Polly knew something of a life of struggle and small fortune, with its daily incident of debt and dun. She knew what it was to see money mix itself with every phase of existence, throwing its damper over joy, arresting the hand of benevolence, even denying to the sick-bed the little comforts that help to cheat misery. She knew how penury can eat its canker into the heart till all things take the color of thrift, and life becomes at last the terrible struggle of a swimmer storm-tossed and weary; and yet, with all this experience in her heart, she could whisper cheerful counsels to Josephine, and tell her that the world had a great many pleasant paths through it, though one was occasionally footsore before reaching them; and in this way they talked till they grew very fond of each other, and Josephine was ready to confess that the sorrow nearest to her heart was parting with her. "But must you go, dearest Polly,—must you really go?"

"I must, indeed," said she, laughing; "for if I did not, two little sisters of mine would go supperless to bed, not to speak of a small boy who is waiting for me with a Latin grammar before him; and the cook must get her orders for to-morrow; and papa must have his tea; and this short, stumpy little key that you see here unlocks the oat-bin, without which an honest old pony would share in the family fast: so that, all things considered, my absence would be far from advisable."

"And when shall we meet again, Polly?"

"Not to-morrow, dear; for to-morrow is our fair at Inistioge, and I have yarn to buy, and some lambs to sell."

"And could you sell lambs, Polly?" said Josephine, with an expression of blank disappointment in her face.

Polly smiled, but not without a certain sadness, as she said, "There are some sentimentalities which, to one in my condition, would just be as unsuitable as Brussels lace or diamonds. They are born of luxury and indolence, and pertain to those whose existence is assured to them; and my own opinion is, they are a poor privilege. At all events," added she, rapidly, "they are not for me, and I do not wish for them."

"The day after to-morrow, then, you will come here,—promise me that."

"It will be late, then, towards evening, for I have made an engagement to put a young horse in harness,—a three-year-old, and a sprightly one, they tell me,—so that I may look on the morning as filled. I see, my dear child, how shocked you are with all these unladylike cares and duties; but poor Tom and I used to weld our lives together, and while I took my share of boat-building one day, he helped me in the dairy the day after; but now that he is gone, our double functions devolve upon me."

"How happy you must be!"

"I think I am; at least, I have no time to spare for unhappiness."

"If I could but change with you, Polly!"

"Change what, my dear child?"

"Condition, fortune, belongings,—everything."

"Take my word for it, you are just as well as you are; but I suppose it's very natural for one to fancy he could carry another's burden easier than his own, for it was only a few moments back I thought how I should like to be you."

"To be me,—to be me!"

"Of course I was wrong, dearest. It was only a passing, fleeting thought, and I now see how absurd I was to wish to be very beautiful, dearly loved, and affectionately cared for, with a beautiful home to live in, and every hour free to be happy. Oh, what a sigh, dearest, what a