“Now go back, old dear; you mustn’t follow me. Oh, Nep, it’s so hard to put love away when you want it very much, and it isn’t right to take it.”

A foolish little speech to make to a dog; but you see Polly was only a tender-hearted girl, trying to do her duty.

“Since he is safe with Fanny, I may venture to walk where I like. It’s such a lovely day, all the babies will be out, and it always does me good to see them,” thought Polly, turning into the wide, sunny street, where West End-dom promenaded at that hour.

The babies were out in full force, looking as gay and delicate and sweet as the snow-drops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks, whence the snow had melted. But somehow the babies didn’t do Polly the good she expected, though they smiled at her from their carriages, and kissed their chubby hands as she passed them, for Polly had the sort of face that babies love. One tiny creature in blue plush was casting despairing glances after a very small lord of creation who was walking away with a toddling belle in white, while a second young gentleman in gorgeous purple gaiters was endeavouring to console the deserted damsel.

“Take hold of Master Charley’s hand, Miss Mamie, and walk pretty, like Willy and Flossy,” said the maid.

“No, no, I want to do wid Willy, and he won’t let me. Do ’way, Tarley; I don’t lite you,” cried little Blue- bonnet, casting down her ermine muff, and sobbing in a microscopic handkerchief, the thread-lace edging on which couldn’t mitigate her woe, as it might have done that of an older sufferer.

“Willy likes Flossy best, so stop crying and come right along, you naughty child.”

As poor little Dido was jerked away by the unsympathetic maid, and Purple-gaiters essayed in vain to plead his cause, Polly said to herself, with a smile and a sigh,—

“How early the old story begins!”

It seemed as if the spring weather had brought out all manner of tender things besides fresh grass and the first dandelions; for as she went down the street, Polly kept seeing different phases of the sweet old story which she was trying to forget.

At a street corner, a black-eyed school-boy was parting from a rosy-faced school-girl, whose music-roll he was reluctantly surrendering.

“Don’t you forget, now,” said the boy, looking bashfully into the bright eyes, that danced with pleasure as the girl blushed and smiled, and answered reproachfully,—

“Why of course I shan’t!”

“That little romance runs smoothly so far; I hope it may to the end,” said Polly, heartily, as she watched the lad tramp away, whistling as blithely as if his pleasurable emotions must find a vent, or endanger the buttons on the round jacket; while the girl pranced on her own doorstep, as if practising for the joyful dance which she had promised not to forget.

A little farther on Polly passed a newly-engaged couple whom she knew, walking arm-in-arm for the first time, both wearing that proud yet conscious look which is so delightful to behold upon the countenances of these temporarily glorified beings.

“How happy they seem; oh, dear!” said Polly, and trudged on, wondering if her turn would ever come, and fearing that it was impossible.