“No, Polly,” I cried, looking at it eagerly. “I told you. It’s for you.”
“But—but—it can’t be.”
“Yes,” I said, pointing to a little three-cornered note. “Open that and see what it says.”
Polly’s trembling fingers hurriedly opened the paper, which she read, and then handed to me, Mercer looking over me as I held it out and read these simple words:—
“For Mary Hopley, with a mother’s thanks.”
I saw the tears start to the girl’s eyes, and there was something very charming in her next act, which was to carefully fold the note and kiss it before placing it in her bosom.
“I shan’t never part with that,” she said softly; and then she stood gazing down at the watch, till a shadow darkened the door, and big Bob Hopley came striding in.
“Hullo, young gents!” he said; “how are you? Why Polly! What’s—”
“A present, father, from Mr Burr junior’s mar. Ought I to take it?”
