"Oh no, Mrs. Brown," said one, which I recognised at once as my Polly's, "he is dead for certain, and my heart is breaking. He would never, never have left me so long without writing if he had been alive," and then came a great sound of sobbing.
"Bless your kind heart, miss," said the voice of my landlady in reply, "but you don't know as much about young gentlemen as I do. It is not likely, if he has gone off on the razzle-dazzle, as I am sure he has, he is going to write every post and tell you about it. Now you go off to your ma at the hotel like a dear, and forget all about him till he comes back—that's my advice."
"I cannot, I cannot, Mrs. Brown. I cannot rest by day or sleep by night for thinking of him; for wondering why he went away so suddenly, and for hungering for news of him. Oh, I am miserable. Gully! Gully! Come to me," and then there were sounds of troubled footsteps pacing to and fro and of a woman's grief.
That was more than I could stand. I flung the door open, and, dirty, dishevelled, with unsteady steps, advanced into the room.
"Ahem!" coughed Mrs. Brown, "just as I expected!"
But I had no eyes for her. "Polly! Polly!" I cried, and that dear girl, after a startled scream and a glance to make sure it was indeed the recovered prodigal, rushed over and threw all
