Let’s see: the dictionary says that an enchanter is one who calls down by chanting or singing—one who practises sorcery by song. Polly, then, must have been an enchantress, for her little ditty about the love of some deserted maid had the effect of bringing cousin Humphrey Lloyd through the shrubbery to the open window of the housekeeper’s room; and just in the midst of one of the sweetest of the little trills there was a rustle amongst the laurels, and a deep voice whispered “Polly!”
“Oh, my!” ejaculated Polly, dropping her work, and starting farther from the window. “What will aunt say?”
Now, her instructions had been stringent; and knowing that it would be like high treason to speak to Humphrey, she determined that she would not, just as an industrious young needle, which had been warned not to get rusty by associating with common bits of steel, might have gone on busily through its work like the one Polly held in her hand.
But supposing that, instead of a common piece of steel, a magnet that had been rubbed with the loadstone of love should come in its way, what could the poor needle do?
Even as did little Polly—vow that aunt would be so cross; and then feel herself drawn, drawn closer and closer to the iron-barred window, till her little hands were caught in two strong, muscular fists, which pressed them so hard that they almost hurt.
“Oh! you mustn’t, mustn’t come!” sobbed Polly. “If aunt found it out she would almost kill me!”
“No, no, little one,” said Humphrey; “why should she?”
“You—you don’t know aunt,” whispered Polly. “She’s ordered me not to speak to you.”
“Not to speak to me!”
“Yes; nor to any one else. She would be so angry if she knew. You don’t want to get me scolded.”