Barrington was in no mood for a discussion; he was too happy to be once more at home to be ruffled by any provocation his sister could give him. Wherever he turned, some old familiar object met his eye and seemed to greet him, and he bustled in and out from his little study to the garden, and then to the stable, where he patted old Roger; and across to the cow-house, where Maggie knew him, and bent her great lazy eyes softly on him; and then down to the liver-side, where, in gilt letters, “Josephine” shone on the trim row-boat he had last seen half rotten on the bank; for Polly had been there too, and her thoughtful good-nature, forgetting nothing which might glad them on their coming.
Meanwhile, Josephine had reached her chamber, and, locking the door, sat down and leaned her head on the table. Though no tears fell from her eyes, her bosom heaved and fell heavily, and more than one deep sigh escaped her. Was it disappointment that had so overcome her? Had she fancied something grander and more pretentious than this lonely cottage? Was it that Aunt Dinah's welcome was wanting in affection? What revulsion could it be that so suddenly overwhelmed her? Who can tell these things, who can explain how it is that, without any definite picture of an unexpected joy, imagination will so work upon us that reality will bring nothing but a blank? It is not that the object is less attractive than is hoped for, it is simply that a dark shadow has passed over our own hearts; the sense of enjoyment has been dulled, and we are sad without a reason. If we underrate sorrows of our youth,—and this is essentially one of them,—it is because our mature age leaves us nothing of that temperament on which such afflictions preyed.
Josephine, without knowing why, without even a reason, wished herself back in the convent. There, if there was a life of sombre monotony and quietude, there was at least companionship; she had associates of her own age. They had pursuits in common, shared the same hopes and wishes and fears; but here—but here—Just as her thoughts had carried her so far, a tap—a very gentle tap—came to the door. Josephine heard it, 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.”