Polly was more than eighteen now, but her hair had never grown properly—it was still tucked behind the pretty little ears, and the smooth glossy head still felt like the down of an unfledged bird; 'there was something uncommon about Polly Ellison's style,' as people said, and as Mildred sometimes observed to Dr. Heriot—'Polly is certainly growing very pretty.'
He thought so now as he watched the delicate, high-bred face, the cheeks as softly tinted as the roses she wore. Polly's gentle fun always made her the life of the party; she was busily putting in the sugar with the old-fashioned tongs—she carried the cups to Dr. Heriot and Hugh with saucy little speeches.
How well Mildred remembered that evening afterwards. Dr. Heriot had placed her in the old rocking-chair beside the open window, and had thrown himself down on the settle beside her. Chriss, who was a regular salamander, had betaken herself to the farmer's great elbow-chair; the other girls and Hugh had gathered round the little table; the sunshine fell full on Hugh's beaming face and Olive's thoughtful profile; how peaceful and bright it all was, she thought, in spite of her aching head; the girlish laughter pealed through the room, the sparrows and martins chirped from the ivy, the sheep bleating sounded musically from the distance.
'It is an ill wind that blows no one any good,' laughed Dr. Heriot; 'my mare's lameness has given me an excuse for idleness. Look at that fellow Marsden; it puts one into a good temper only to look at him; he reminds one of a moorland breeze, so healthy and so exuberant.'
'We are going to see the dairy!' cried Polly, springing up; 'Chriss and I and Mr. Marsden. Olive is too lazy to come.'
'No, I am only tired,' returned Olive, a little weary of the mirth and longing for quiet.
When the others had gone she stole up the crazy stairs and stood for a long time in the great window looking at the old gateway. They all wondered where she was, when Hugh found her and brought her down, and they walked home through the gray glimmering fields.
'I wonder of what you were thinking when I came in and startled you?' asked Hugh presently.
'I don't know—at least I cannot tell you,' returned Olive, blushing in the dusky light. Could she tell any one the wonderful thoughts that sometimes came to her at such hours; would he understand it if she could?
The young man looked disconcerted—almost hurt.