“The garden flower had happiness before the walls fell,” said Polly.  “It is happiness I want.”

“The banian-tree had blessedness after the walls fell, and it is blessedness I want; but then, I am forty-seven, and you are seventeen!” sighed Mrs. Noble, as they walked through the orange orchard to the house.

CHAPTER XIV.

EDGAR DISCOURSES OF SCARLET RUNNERS.

One day, in the middle of October, the mail brought Polly two letters:  the first from Edgar, who often dashed off cheery scrawls in the hope of getting cheery replies, which never came; and the second from Mrs. Bird, who had a plan to propose.

Edgar wrote:—­

. . .  “I have a new boarding-place in San Francisco, a stone’s throw from Mrs. Bird’s, whose mansion I can look down upon from a lofty height reached by a flight of fifty wooden steps,—­good training in athletics!  Mrs. Morton is a kind landlady and the house is a home, in a certain way,—­

  “But oh, the difference to me
  ’Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee!

“There is a Morton girl, too; but she neither plays nor sings nor jokes, nor even looks,—­in fine, she is not Polly!  I have come to the conclusion, now, that girls in a house are almost always nuisances,—­I mean, of course, when, they are not Pollies.  Oh, why are you so young, and so loaded with this world’s goods, that you will never need me for a boarder again?  Mrs. Bird is hoping to see you soon, and I chose my humble lodging on this hill-top because, from my attic’s lonely height, I can watch you going in and out of your ‘marble halls;’ and you will almost pass my door as you take the car.  In view of this pleasing prospect (now, alas! somewhat distant), I send you a scrap of newspaper verse which prophesies my sentiments.  It is signed ‘M.  E. W.,’ and Tom Mills says whoever wrote it knows you.”

  WHEN POLLY GOES BY.

  ’T is but poorly I ’m lodged in a little side-street,
  Which is seldom disturbed by the hurry of feet,
  For the flood-tide of life long ago ebbed away
  From its homely old houses, rain-beaten and gray;
  And I sit with my pipe in the window, and sigh
  At the buffets of fortune—­till Polly goes by.

  There ’s a flaunting of ribbons, a flurry of lace,
  And a rose in the bonnet above a bright face,
  A glance from two eyes so deliriously blue
  The midsummer seas scarcely rival their hue;
  And once in a while, if the wind ’s blowing high,
  The sound of soft laughter as Polly goes by.

  Then up jumps my heart and begins to beat fast. 
  “She ’s coming!” it whispers.  “She ’s here! 
        She has passed!”
  While I throw up the sash and lean breathlessly down
  To catch the last glimpse of her vanishing gown,
  Excited, delighted, yet wondering why
  My senses desert me if Polly goes by.