have; that's just the way the heroines go on," cried Tom.
"I haven't read one; but it's evident you have, young man, and you'd better stop."
"I don't care for 'em; only do it to keep up my French. But how came you to be so wise, ma'am?"
"Observation, sir. I like to watch faces; and I seldom see a grown-up one that looks perfectly happy."
"True for you, Polly; no more you do, now I think of it. I don't know but one that always looks so, and there it is."
"Where?" asked Polly, with interest.
"Look straight before you, and you'll see it."
Polly did look, but all she saw was her own face in the little mirror of the fan which Tom held up and peeped over with a laugh in his eyes.
"Do I look happy? I'm glad of that," and Polly surveyed herself with care.
Both young men thought it was girlish vanity, and smiled at its naive display; but Polly was looking for something deeper than beauty, and was glad not to find it.
"Rather a pleasant little prospect, hey, Polly?"
"My bonnet is straight, and that's all I care about. Did you ever see a picture of Beau Brummel?" asked Polly, quickly.
"No."
"Well, there he is, modernized," and turning the fan, she showed him himself.
"Any more portraits in your gallery?" asked
