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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

Release Date: May, 2002 [Etext #3237]
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Preface

AS a preface is the only place where an author can
with propriety explain a purpose or apologize
for shortcomings,
I venture
to avail myself of the privilege
to make a statement
for the benefit of my readers.

As the first part of
"An Old-Fashioned Girl"
was written in 1869,
the demand
for a sequel,
in beseeching little letters that made refusal impossible,
rendered it necessary
to carry my heroine boldly forward some six or seven years into the future.

The domestic nature of the story makes this audacious proceeding possible;
while the lively fancies of my young readers will supply all deficiencies,
and overlook all discrepancies.

This explanation will,
I trust,
relieve those well-regulated minds,
who cannot conceive of such literary lawlessness,
from the bewilderment which they suffered when the same experiment was tried in a former book.

The
"Old-Fashioned Girl"
is not intended as a perfect model,
but as a possible improvement upon [Page] the Girl of the Period,
who seems sorrowfully ignorant or ashamed of the good old fashions which make woman truly beautiful and honored,
and,
through her,
render home what it should be,-a happy place,
where parents and children,
brothers and sisters,
learn
to love and know and help one another.

If the history of Polly's girlish experiences suggests a hint or insinuates a lesson,
I shall feel that,
in spite of many obstacles,
I have not entirely neglected my duty toward the little men and women,
for whom it is an honor and a pleasure
to write,
since in them I have always found my kindest patrons,
gentlest critics,
warmest friends.

L.

M.

A.

Contents
Chapter 1. Polly Arrives
Chapter 2. New Fashions
Chapter 3. Polly's Troubles
Chapter 4. Little Things
Chapter 5. Scrapes
Chapter 6. Grandma
Chapter 7. Good-by
Chapter 8. Six Years Afterward
Chapter 9. Lessons
Chapter 10. Brothers and Sisters
Chapter 11. Needles and Tongues
Chapter 12. Forbidden Fruit
Chapter 13. The Sunny Side
Chapter 14. Nipped in the Bud
Chapter 15. Breakers Ahead
Chapter 16. A Dress Parade
Chapter 17. Playing Grandmother
Chapter 18. The Woman Who Did Not Dare
Chapter 19. Tom's Success


An Old-fashioned Girl

CHAPTER I
POLLY ARRIVES

"IT'S time
to go
to the station,
Tom."

"Come on,
then."

"Oh,
I
'm not going;
it
's too wet.

Should n't have a crimp left if I went out such a day as this;
and I want
to look nice when Polly comes."

"You don't expect me
to go and bring home a strange girl alone,
do you?"
And Tom looked as much alarmed as if his sister had proposed
to him
to escort the wild woman of Australia.

"Of course I do.

It
's your place
to go and get her;
and if you was n't a bear,
you
'd like it."

"Well,
I call that mean! I supposed I
'd got
to go;
but you said you
'd go,
too.

Catch me bothering about your friends another time! No,
sir!
"
And Tom rose from the sofa
with an air of indignant resolution,
the impressive effect of which was somewhat damaged by a tousled head,
and the hunched appearance of his garments generally.

"Now,
don't be cross;
and I
'll get mamma
to let you have that horrid Ned Miller,
that you are so fond of,
come and make you a visit after Polly
's gone,"
said Fanny,
hoping
to soothe his ruffled feelings.

"How long is she going
to stay?"
demanded Tom,
making his toilet by a promiscuous shake.

"A month or two,
maybe.

She
's ever so nice;
and I shall keep her as long as she
's happy."

"She won't stay long then,
if I can help it,"
muttered Tom,
who regarded girls as a very unnecessary portion of creation.

Boys of fourteen are apt
to think so,
and perhaps it is a wise arrangement;
for,
being fond of turning somersaults,
they have an opportunity of indulging in a good one,
metaphorically speaking,
when,
three or four years later,
they become the abject slaves of
"those bothering girls."

"Look here! how am I going
to know the creature?

I never saw her,
and she never saw me.

You
'll have
to come too,
Fan,"
he added,
pausing on his way
to the door,
arrested by the awful idea that he might have
to address several strange girls before he got the right one.

"You
'll find her easy enough;
she
'll probably be standing round looking
for us.

I dare say she
'll know you,
though I
'm not there,
because I
've described you
to her."

"Guess she won't,
then;"
and Tom gave a hasty smooth
to his curly pate and a glance at the mirror,
feeling sure that his sister had n't done him justice.

Sisters never do,
as
"we fellows"
know too well.

"Do go along,
or you
'll be too late;
and then,
what will Polly think of me?"
cried Fanny,
with the impatient poke which is peculiarly aggravating
to masculine dignity.

"She
'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends,
and she
'll be about right,
too."

Feeling that he said rather a neat and cutting thing,
Tom sauntered leisurely away,
perfectly conscious that it was late,
but bent on not being hurried while in sight,
though he ran himself off his legs
to make up
for it afterward.

"If I was the President,
I
'd make a law
to shut up all boys till they were grown;
for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the world,"
said Fanny,
as she watched the slouchy figure of her brother strolling down the street.

She might have changed her mind,
however,
if she had followed him,
for as soon as he turned the corner,
his whole aspect altered;
his hands came out of his pockets,
he stopped whistling,
buttoned his jacket,
gave his cap a pull,
and went off at a great pace.

The train was just in when he reached the station,
panting like a race-horse,
and as red as a lobster
with the wind and the run.

"Suppose she
'll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob,
like every one else;
and however shall I know her?

Too bad of Fan
to make me come alone!"
thought Tom,
as he stood watching the crowd stream through the depot,
and feeling rather daunted at the array of young ladies who passed.

As none of them seemed looking
for any one,
he did not accost them,
but eyed each new batch
with the air of a martyr.

"That
's her,"
he said
to himself,
as he presently caught sight of a girl in gorgeous array,
standing
with her hands folded,
and a very small hat perched on the top of a very large
"chig-non,"
as Tom pronounced it.

"I suppose I
've got
to speak
to her,
so here goes;"
and,
nerving himself
to the task,
Tom slowly approached the damsel,
who looked as if the wind had blown her clothes into rags,
such a flapping of sashes,
scallops,
ruffles,
curls,
and feathers was there.

"I say,
if you please,
is your name Polly Milton?"
meekly asked Tom,
pausing before the breezy stranger.

"No,
it is n't,"
answered the young lady,
with a cool stare that utterly quenched him.

"Where in thunder is she?"
growled Tom,
walking off in high dudgeon.

The quick tap of feet behind him made him turn in time
to see a fresh-faced little girl running down the long station,
and looking as if she rather liked it.

As she smiled,
and waved her bag at him,
he stopped and waited
for her,
saying
to himself,
"Hullo! I wonder if that
's Polly?"
Up came the little girl,
with her hand out,
and a half-shy,
half-merry look in her blue eyes,
as she said,
inquiringly,
"This is Tom,
is n't it?"
"Yes.

How did you know?"
and Tom got over the ordeal of hand-shaking without thinking of it,
he was so surprised.

"Oh,
Fan told me you
'd got curly hair,
and a funny nose,
and kept whistling,
and wore a gray cap pulled over your eyes;
so I knew you directly."

And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly manner,
having politely refrained from calling the hair
"red,"
the nose
"a pug,"
and the cap
"old,"
all of which facts Fanny had carefully impressed upon her memory.

"Where are your trunks?"
asked Tom,
as he was reminded of his duty by her handing him the bag,
which he had not offered
to take.

"Father told me not
to wait
for any one,
else I
'd lose my chance of a hack;
so I gave my check
to a man,
and there he is
with my trunk;"
and Polly walked off after her one modest piece of baggage,
followed by Tom,
who felt a trifle depressed by his own remissness in polite attentions.

"She is n't a bit of a young lady,
thank goodness! Fan did n't tell me she was pretty.

Don't look like city girls,
nor act like
'em,
neither,"
he thought,
trudging in the rear,
and eyeing
with favor the brown curls bobbing along in front.

As the carriage drove off,
Polly gave a little bounce on the springy seat,
and laughed like a delighted child.

"I do like
to ride in these nice hacks,
and see all the fine things,
and have a good time,
don't you?"
she said,
composing herself the next minute,
as if it suddenly occurred
to her that she was going a-visiting.

"Not much,"
said Tom,
not minding what he said,
for the fact that he was shut up
with the strange girl suddenly oppressed his soul.

"How
's Fan?

Why did n't she come,
too?"
asked Polly,
trying
to look demure,
while her eyes danced in spite of her.

"Afraid of spoiling her crinkles;"
and Tom smiled,
for this base betrayal of confidence made him feel his own man again.

"You and I don't mind dampness.

I
'm much obliged
to you
for coming
to take care of me."

It was kind of Polly
to say that,
and Tom felt it;
for his red crop was a tender point,
and
to be associated
with Polly's pretty brown curls seemed
to lessen its coppery glow.

Then he had n't done anything
for her but carry the bag a few steps;
yet,
she thanked him.

He felt grateful,
and in a burst of confidence,
offered a handful of peanuts,
for his pockets were always supplied
with this agreeable delicacy,
and he might be traced anywhere by the trail of shells he left behind him.

As soon as he had done it,
he remembered that Fanny considered them vulgar,
and felt that he had disgraced his family.

So he stuck his head out of the window,
and kept it there so long,
that Polly asked if anything was the matter.

"Pooh! who cares
for a countrified little thing like her,"
said Tom manfully
to himself;
and then the spirit of mischief entered in and took possession of him.

"He
's pretty drunk;
but I guess he can hold his horses,"
replied this evil-minded boy,
with an air of calm resignation.

"Is the man tipsy?

Oh,
dear! let
's get out! Are the horses bad?

It
's very steep here;
do you think it
's safe?"
cried poor Polly,
making a cocked hat of her little beaver,
by thrusting it out of the half-open window on her side.

"There
's plenty of folks
to pick us up if anything happens;
but perhaps it would be safer if I got out and sat
with the man;"
and Tom quite beamed
with the brilliancy of this sudden mode of relief.

"Oh,
do,
if you ain't afraid! Mother would be so anxious if anything should happen
to me,
so far away!"
cried Polly,
much distressed.

"Don't you be worried.

I
'll manage the old chap,
and the horses too;"
and opening the door,
Tom vanished aloft,
leaving poor victimized Polly
to quake inside,
while he placidly revelled in freedom and peanuts outside,
with the staid old driver.

Fanny came flying down
to meet her
"darling Polly,"
as Tom presented her,
with the graceful remark,
"I
've got her!"
and the air of a dauntless hunter,
producing the trophies of his skill.

Polly was instantly whisked up stairs;
and having danced a double-shuffle on the door-mat,
Tom retired
to the dining-room,
to restore exhausted nature
with half a dozen cookies.

"Ain't you tired
to death?

Don't you want
to lie down?"
said Fanny,
sitting on the side of the bed in Polly's room,
and chattering hard,
while she examined everything her friend had on.

"Not a bit.

I had a nice time coming,
and no trouble,
except the tipsy coachman;
but Tom got out and kept him in order,
so I was n't much frightened,"
answered innocent Polly,
taking off her rough-and-ready coat,
and the plain hat without a bit of a feather.

"Fiddlestick! he was n't tipsy;
and Tom only did it
to get out of the way.

He can't bear girls,"
said Fanny,
with a superior air.

"Can't he?

Why,
I thought he was very pleasant and kind!"
and Polly opened her eyes
with a surprised expression.

"He
's an awful boy,
my dear;
and if you have anything
to do
with him,
he
'll torment you
to death.

Boys are all horrid;
but he
's the horridest one I ever saw."

Fanny went
to a fashionable school,
where the young ladies were so busy
with their French,
German,
and Italian,
that there was no time
for good English.

Feeling her confidence much shaken in the youth,
Polly privately resolved
to let him alone,
and changed the conversation,
by saying,
as she looked admiringly about the large,
handsome room,
"How splendid it is! I never slept in a bed
with curtains before,
or had such a fine toilet-table as this."

"I
'm glad you like it;
but don't,
for mercy sake,
say such things before the other girls!"
replied Fanny,
wishing Polly would wear ear-rings,
as every one else did.

"Why not?"
asked the country mouse of the city mouse,
wondering what harm there was in liking other people's pretty things,
and saying so.

"Oh,
they laugh at everything the least bit odd,
and that is n't pleasant."

Fanny did n't say
"countrified,"
but she meant it,
and Polly felt uncomfortable.

So she shook out her little black silk apron
with a thoughtful face,
and resolved not
to allude
to her own home,
if she could help it.

"I
'm so poorly,
mamma says I need n't go
to school regularly,
while you are here,
only two or three times a week,
just
to keep up my music and French.

You can go too,
if you like;
papa said so.

Do,
it
's such fun!"
cried Fanny,
quite surprising her friend by this unexpected fondness
for school.

"I should be afraid,
if all the girls dress as finely as you do,
and know as much,"
said Polly,
beginning
to feel shy at the thought.

"La,
child! you need n't mind that.

I
'll take care of you,
and fix you up,
so you won't look odd."

"Am I odd?"
asked Polly,
struck by the word and hoping it did n't mean anything very bad.

"You are a dear,
and ever so much prettier than you were last summer,
only you
've been brought up differently from us;
so your ways ain't like ours,
you see,"
began Fanny,
finding it rather hard
to explain.

"How different?"
asked Polly again,
for she liked
to understand things.

"Well,
you dress like a little girl,
for one thing."

"I am a little girl;
so why should n't I?"
and Polly looked at her simple blue merino frock,
stout boots,
and short hair,
with a puzzled air.

"You are fourteen;
and we consider ourselves young ladies at that age,"
continued Fanny,
surveying,
with complacency,
the pile of hair on the top of her head,
with a fringe of fuzz round her forehead,
and a wavy lock streaming down her back;
likewise,
her scarlet-and-black suit,
with its big sash,
little pannier,
bright buttons,
points,
rosettes,
and,
heaven knows what.

There was a locket on her neck,
earrings tinkling in her ears,
watch and chain at her belt,
and several rings on a pair of hands that would have been improved by soap and water.

Polly's eye went from one little figure
to the other,
and she thought that Fanny looked the oddest of the two;
for Polly lived in a quiet country town,
and knew very little of city fashions.

She was rather impressed by the elegance about her,
never having seen Fanny's home before,
as they got acquainted while Fanny paid a visit
to a friend who lived near Polly.

But she did n't let the contrast between herself and Fan trouble her;
for in a minute she laughed and said,
contentedly,
"My mother likes me
to dress simply,
and I don't mind.

I should n't know what
to do rigged up as you are.

Don't you ever forget
to lift your sash and fix those puffy things when you sit down?

"
Before Fanny could answer,
a scream from below made both listen.

"It
's only Maud;
she fusses all day long,"
began Fanny;
and the words were hardly out of her mouth,
when the door was thrown open,
and a little girl,
of six or seven,
came roaring in.

She stopped at sight of Polly,
stared a minute,
then took up her roar just where she left it,
and cast herself into Fanny's lap,
exclaiming wrathfully,
"Tom
's laughing at me! Make him stop!"
"What did you do
to set him going?

Don't scream so,
you
'll frighten Polly!"
and Fan gave the cherub a shake,
which produced an explanation.

"I only said we had cold cweam at the party,
last night,
and he laughed!"
"Ice-cream,
child!"
and Fanny followed Tom's reprehensible example.

"I don't care! it was cold;
and I warmed mine at the wegister,
and then it was nice;
only,
Willy Bliss spilt it on my new Gabwielle!"
and Maud wailed again over her accumulated woes.

"Do go
to Katy! You
're as cross as a little bear to-day!"
said Fanny,
pushing her away.

"Katy don't amoose me;
and I must be amoosed,
'cause I
'm fwactious;
mamma said I was!"
sobbed Maud,
evidently laboring under the delusion that fractiousness was some interesting malady.

"Come down and have dinner;
that will amuse you;"
and Fanny got up,
pluming herself as a bird does before its flight.

Polly hoped the
"dreadful boy"
would not be present;
but he was,
and stared at her all dinner-time,
in a most trying manner.

Mr. Shaw,
a busy-looking gentleman,
said,"
How do you do,
my dear?

Hope you
'll enjoy yourself;"
and then appeared
to forget her entirely.

Mrs. Shaw,
a pale,
nervous woman,
greeted her little guest kindly,
and took care that she wanted
for nothing.

Madam Shaw,
a quiet old lady,
with an imposing cap,
exclaimed on seeing Polly,
"Bless my heart! the image of her mother a sweet woman how is she,
dear?"
and kept peering at the new-comer over her glasses,
till,
between Madam and Tom,
poor Polly lost her appetite.

Fanny chatted like a magpie,
and Maud fidgeted,
till Tom proposed
to put her under the big dish-cover,
which produced such an explosion,
that the young lady was borne screaming away,
by the much-enduring Katy.

It was altogether an uncomfortable dinner,
and Polly was very glad when it was over.

They all went about their own affairs;
and after doing the honors of the house,
Fan was called
to the dressmaker,
leaving Polly
to amuse herself in the great drawing-room.

Polly was glad
to be alone
for a few minutes;
and,
having examined all the pretty things about her,
began
to walk up and down over the soft,
flowery carpet,
humming
to herself,
as the daylight faded,
and only the ruddy glow of the fire filled the room.

Presently Madam came slowly in,
and sat down in her arm-chair,
saying,
"That
's a fine old tune;
sing it
to me,
my dear.

I have n't heard it this many a day."

Polly did n't like
to sing before strangers,
for she had had no teaching but such as her busy mother could give her;
but she had been taught the utmost respect
for old people,
and having no reason
for refusing,
she directly went
to the piano,
and did as she was bid.

"That
's the sort of music it
's a pleasure
to hear.

Sing some more,
dear,"
said Madam,
in her gentle way,
when she had done.

Pleased
with this praise,
Polly sang away in a fresh little voice,
that went straight
to the listener's heart and nestled there.

The sweet old tunes that one is never tired of were all Polly's store;
and her favorites were Scotch airs,
such as,
"Yellow-Haired Laddie,"
"Jock o'
Hazeldean,"
"Down among the Heather,"
and
"Birks of Aberfeldie."

The more she sung,
the better she did it;
and when she wound up with
"A Health
to King Charlie,"
the room quite rung
with the stirring music made by the big piano and the little maid.

"By George,
that
's a jolly tune! Sing it again,
please,"
cried Tom's voice;
and there was Tom's red head bobbing up over the high back of the chair where he had hidden himself.

It gave Polly quite a turn,
for she thought no one was hearing her but the old lady dozing by the fire.

"I can't sing any more;
I
'm tired,"
she said,
and walked away
to Madam in the other room.

The red head vanished like a meteor,
for Polly's tone had been decidedly cool.

The old lady put out her hand,
and drawing Polly
to her knee,
looked into her face
with such kind eyes,
that Polly forgot the impressive cap,
and smiled at her confidingly;
for she saw that her simple music had pleased her listener,
and she felt glad
to know it.

"You must n't mind my staring,
dear,"
said Madam,
softly pinching her rosy cheek.

"I have n't seen a little girl
for so long,
it does my old eyes good
to look at you."

Polly thought that a very odd speech,
and could n't help saying,
"Are n't Fan and Maud little girls,
too?"
"Oh,
dear,
no! not what I call little girls.

Fan has been a young lady this two years,
and Maud is a spoiled baby.

Your mother
's a very sensible woman,
my child."

"What a very queer old lady!"
thought Polly;
but she said
"Yes
'm"
respectfully,
and looked at the fire.

"You don't understand what I mean,
do you?"
asked Madam,
still holding her by the chin.

"No
'm;
not quite."

"Well,
dear,
I
'll tell you.

In my day,
children of fourteen and fifteen did n't dress in the height of the fashion;
go
to parties,
as nearly like those of grown people as it
's possible
to make them;
lead idle,
giddy,
unhealthy lives,
and get blas,
at twenty.

We were little folks till eighteen or so;
worked and studied,
dressed and played,
like children;
honored our parents;
and our days were much longer in the land than now,
it seems to,
me."

The old lady appeared
to forget Polly at the end of her speech;
for she sat patting the plump little hand that lay in her own,
and looking up at a faded picture of an old gentleman
with a ruffled shirt and a queue.

"Was he your father,
Madam?

"Yes,
dear;
my honored father.

I did up his frills
to the day of his death;
and the first money I ever earned was five dollars which he offered as a prize
to whichever of his six girls would lay the handsomest darn in his silk stockings."

"How proud you must have been!"
cried Polly,
leaning on the old lady's knee
with an interested face.

"Yes,
and we all learned
to make bread,
and cook,
and wore little chintz gowns,
and were as gay and hearty as kittens.

All lived
to be grandmothers and fathers;
and I
'm the last,
seventy,
next birthday,
my dear,
and not worn out yet;
though daughter Shaw is an invalid at forty."

"That
's the way I was brought up,
and that
's why Fan calls me old-fashioned,
I suppose.

Tell more about your papa,
please;
I like it,"
said Polly.

"Say
'father.'

We never called him papa;
and if one of my brothers had addressed him as
'governor,'
as boys do now,
I really think he
'd have him cut off
with a shilling."

Madam raised her voice in saying this,
and nodded significantly;
but a mild snore from the other room seemed
to assure her that it was a waste of shot
to fire in that direction.

Before she could continue,
in came Fanny
with the joyful news that Clara Bird had invited them both
to go
to the theatre
with her that very evening,
and would call
for them at seven o'clock.

Polly was so excited by this sudden plunge into the dissipations of city life,
that she flew about like a distracted butterfly,
and hardly knew what happened,
till she found herself seated before the great green curtain in the brilliant theatre.

Old Mr. Bird sat on one side,
Fanny on the other,
and both let her alone,
for which she was very grateful,
as her whole attention was so absorbed in the scene around her,
that she could n't talk.

Polly had never been much
to the theatre;
and the few plays she had seen were the good old fairy tales,
dramatized
to suit young beholders,
lively,
bright,
and full of the harmless nonsense which brings the laugh without the blush.

That night she saw one of the new spectacles which have lately become the rage,
and run
for hundreds of nights,
dazzling,
exciting,
and demoralizing the spectator by every allurement French ingenuity can invent,
and American prodigality execute.

Never mind what its name was,
it was very gorgeous,
very vulgar,
and very fashionable;
so,
of course,
it was much admired,
and every one went
to see it.

At first,
Polly thought she had got into fairy-land,
and saw only the sparkling creatures who danced and sung in a world of light and beauty;
but,
presently,
she began
to listen
to the songs and conversation,
and then the illusion vanished;
for the lovely phantoms sang negro melodies,
talked slang,
and were a disgrace
to the good old-fashioned elves whom she knew and loved so well.

Our little girl was too innocent
to understand half the jokes,
and often wondered what people were laughing at;
but,
as the first enchantment subsided,
Polly began
to feel uncomfortable,
to be sure her mother would n't like
to have her there,
and
to wish she had n't come.

Somehow,
things seemed
to get worse and worse,
as the play went on;
for our small spectator was being rapidly enlightened by the gossip going on all about her,
as well as by her own quick eyes and girlish instincts.

When four-and-twenty girls,
dressed as jockeys,
came prancing on
to the stage,
cracking their whips,
stamping the heels of their topboots,
and winking at the audience,
Polly did not think it at all funny,
but looked disgusted,
and was glad when they were gone;
but when another set appeared in a costume consisting of gauze wings,
and a bit of gold fringe round the waist,
poor unfashionable Polly did n't know what
to do;
for she felt both frightened and indignant,
and sat
with her eyes on her play-bill,
and her cheeks getting hotter and hotter every minute.

"What are you blushing so for?"
asked Fanny,
as the painted sylphs vanished.

"I
'm so ashamed of those girls,"
whispered Polly,
taking a long breath of relief.

"You little goose,
it
's just the way it was done in Paris,
and the dancing is splendid.

It seems queer at first;
but you
'll get used
to it,
as I did."

"I
'll never come again,"
said Polly,
decidedly;
for her innocent nature rebelled against the spectacle,
which,
as yet,
gave her more pain than pleasure.

She did not know how easy it was to
"get used
to it,"
as Fanny did;
and it was well
for her that the temptation was not often offered.

She could not explain the feeling;
but she was glad when the play was done,
and they were safe at home,
where kind grandma was waiting
to see them comfortably into bed.

"Did you have a good time,
dear?"
she asked,
looking at Polly's feverish cheeks and excited eyes.

"I don't wish
to be rude,
but I did n't,"
answered Polly.

"Some of it was splendid;
but a good deal of it made me want
to go under the seat.

People seemed
to like it,
but I don't think it was proper."

As Polly freed her mind,
and emphasized her opinion
with a decided rap of the boot she had just taken off,
Fanny laughed,
and said,
while she pirouetted about the room,
like Mademoiselle Therese,
"Polly was shocked,
grandma.

Her eyes were as big as saucers.

her face as red as my sash,
and once I thought she was going
to cry.

Some of it was rather queer;
but,
of course,
it was proper,
or all our set would n't go.

I heard Mrs. Smythe Perkins say,
'It was charming;
so like dear Paris;'
and she has lived abroad;
so,
of course,
she knows what is what."

"I don't care if she has.

I know it was n't proper
for little girls
to see,
or I should n't have been so ashamed!"
cried sturdy Polly,
perplexed,
but not convinced,
even by Mrs. Smythe Perkins.

"I think you are right,
my dear;
but you have lived in the country,
and have n't yet learned that modesty has gone out of fashion."

And
with a good-night kiss,
grandma left Polly
to dream dreadfully of dancing in jockey costume,
on a great stage;
while Tom played a big drum in the orchestra;
and the audience all wore the faces of her father and mother,
looking sorrowfully at her,
with eyes like saucers,
and faces as red as Fanny's sash.

CHAPTER II NEW FASHIONS
"I
'M going
to school this morning;
so come up and get ready,"
said Fanny,
a day or two after,
as she left the late breakfast-table.

"You look very nice;
what have you got
to do?"
asked Polly,
following her into the hall.

"Prink half an hour,
and put on her wad,"
answered the irreverent Tom,
whose preparations
for school consisted in flinging his cap on
to his head,
and strapping up several big books,
that looked as if they were sometimes used as weapons of defence.

"What is a wad?"
asked Polly,
while Fanny marched up without deigning any reply.

"Somebody's hair on the top of her head in the place where it ought not
to be;"
and Tom went whistling away
with an air of sublime indifference as
to the state of his own
"curly pow."

"Why must you be so fine
to go
to school?"
asked Polly,
watching Fan arrange the little frizzles on her forehead,
and settle the various streamers and festoons belonging
to her dress.

"All the girls do;
and it
's proper,
for you never know who you may meet.

I
'm going
to walk,
after my lessons,
so I wish you
'd wear your best hat and sack,"
answered Fanny,
trying
to stick her own hat on at an angle which defied all the laws of gravitation.

"I will,
if you don't think this is nice enough.

I like the other best,
because it has a feather;
but this is warmer,
so I wear it every day."

And Polly ran into her own room,
to prink also,
fearing that her friend might be ashamed of her plain costume.

"Won't your hands be cold in kid gloves?"
she said,
as they went down the snowy street,
with a north wind blowing in their faces.

"Yes,
horrid cold;
but my muff is so big,
I won't carry it.

Mamma won't have it cut up,
and my ermine one must be kept
for best;"
and Fanny smoothed her Bismark kids
with an injured air.

"I suppose my gray squirrel is ever so much too big;
but it
's nice and cosy,
and you may warm your hands in it if you want to,"
said Polly,
surveying her new woollen gloves
with a dissatisfied look,
though she had thought them quite elegant before.

"Perhaps I will,
by and by.

Now,
Polly,
don't you be shy.

I
'll only introduce two or three of the girls;
and you need n't mind old Monsieur a bit,
or read if you don't want to.

We shall be in the anteroom;
so you
'll only see about a dozen,
and they will be so busy,
they won't mind you much."

"I guess I won't read,
but sit and look on.

I like
to watch people,
everything is so new and queer here."

But Polly did feel and look very shy,
when she was ushered into a room full of young ladies,
as they seemed
to her,
all very much dressed,
all talking together,
and all turning
to examine the new-comer
with a cool stare which seemed
to be as much the fashion as eye-glasses.

They nodded affably when Fanny introduced her,
said something civil,
and made room
for her at the table round which they sat waiting
for Monsieur.

Several of the more frolicsome were imitating the Grecian Bend,
some were putting their heads together over little notes,
nearly all were eating confectionery,
and the entire twelve chattered like magpies.

Being politely supplied
with caramels,
Polly sat looking and listening,
feeling very young and countrified among these elegant young ladies.

"Girls,
do you know that Carrie has gone abroad?

There has been so much talk,
her father could n't bear it,
and took the whole family off.

Is n't that gay?"
said one lively damsel,
who had just come in.

"I should think they
'd better go.

My mamma says,
if I
'd been going
to that school,
she
'd have taken me straight away,"
answered another girl,
with an important air.

"Carrie ran away
with an Italian music-teacher,
and it got into the papers,
and made a great stir,"
explained the first speaker
to Polly,
who looked mystified.

"How dreadful!"
cried Polly.

"I think it was fun.

She was only sixteen,
and he was perfectly splendid;
and she has plenty of money,
and every one talked about it;
and when she went anywhere,
people looked,
you know,
and she liked it;
but her papa is an old poke,
so he
's sent them all away.

It
's too bad,
for she was the jolliest thing I ever knew."

Polly had nothing
to say
to lively Miss Belle;
but Fanny observed,
"I like
to read about such things;
but it
's so inconvenient
to have it happen right here,
because it makes it harder
for us.

I wish you could have heard my papa go on.

He threatened
to send a maid
to school
with me every day,
as they do in New York,
to be sure I come all right.

Did you ever?"
"That
's because it came out that Carrie used
to forge excuses in her mamma's name,
and go promenading
with her Oreste,
when they thought her safe at school.

Oh,
was n't she a sly minx?"
cried Belle,
as if she rather admired the trick.

"I think a little fun is all right;
and there
's no need of making a talk,
if,
now and then,
some one does run off like Carrie.

Boys do as they like;
and I don't see why girls need
to be kept so dreadfully close.

I
'd like
to see anybody watching and guarding me!"
added another dashing young lady.

"It would take a policeman
to do that,
Trix,
or a little man in a tall hat,"
said Fanny,
slyly,
which caused a general laugh,
and made Beatrice toss her head coquettishly.

"Oh,
have you read
'The Phantom Bride'?

It
's perfectly thrilling! There
's a regular rush
for it at the library;
but some prefer
'Breaking a Butterfly.'

Which do you like best?"
asked a pale girl of Polly,
in one of the momentary lulls which occurred.

"I have n't read either."

"You must,
then.

I adore Guy Livingston's books,
and Yates's.

'Ouida's'
are my delight,
only they are so long,
I get worn out before I
'm through."

"I have n't read anything but one of the Muhlbach novels since I came.

I like those,
because there is history in them,"
said Polly,
glad
to have a word
to say
for herself.

"Those are well enough
for improving reading;
but I like real exciting novels;
don't you?"
Polly was spared the mortification of owning that she had never read any,
by the appearance of Mousieur,
a gray-headed old Frenchman,
who went through his task
with the resigned air of one who was used
to being the victim of giggling school-girls.

The young ladies gabbled over the lesson,
wrote an exercise,
and read a little French history.

But it did not seem
to make much impression upon them,
though Monsieur was very ready
to explain;
and Polly quite blushed
for her friend,
when,
on being asked what famous Frenchman fought in our Revolution,
she answered Lamartine,
instead of Lafayette.

The hour was soon over;
and when Fan had taken a music lesson in another room,
while Polly looked on,
it was time
for recess.

The younger girls walked up and down the court,
arm in arm,
eating bread an butter;
others stayed in the school-room
to read and gossip;
but Belle,
Trix,
and Fanny went
to lunch at a fashionable ice-cream saloon near by,
and Polly meekly followed,
not daring
to hint at the ginger-bread grandma had put in her pocket
for luncheon.

So the honest,
brown cookies crumbled away in obscurity,
while Polly tried
to satisfy her hearty appetite on one ice and three macaroons.

The girls seemed in great spirits,
particularly after they were joined by a short gentleman
with such a young face that Polly would have called him a boy,
if he had not worn a tall beaver.

Escorted by this impressive youth,
Fanny left her unfortunate friends
to return
to school,
and went
to walk,
as she called a slow promenade down the most crowded streets.

Polly discreetly fell behind,
and amused herself looking into shop-windows,
till Fanny,
mindful of her manners,
even at such an interesting time,
took her into a picture gallery,
and bade her enjoy the works of art while they rested.

Obedient Polly went through the room several times,
apparently examining the pictures
with the interest of a connoisseur,
and trying not
to hear the mild prattle of the pair on the round seat.

But she could n't help wondering what Fan found so absorbing in an account of a recent German,
and why she need promise so solemnly not
to forget the concert that afternoon.

When Fanny rose at last,
Polly's tired face reproached her;
and taking a hasty leave of the small gentleman,
she turned homeward,
saying,
confidentially,
as she put one hand in Polly's muff,
"Now,
my dear,
you must n't say a word about Frank Moore,
or papa will take my head off.

I don't care a bit
for him,
and he likes Trix;
only they have quarrelled,
and he wants
to make her mad by flirting a little
with me.

I scolded him well,
and he promised
to make up
with her.

We all go
to the afternoon concerts,
and have a gay time,
and Belle and Trix are
to be there to-day;
so just keep quiet,
and everything will be all right."

"I
'm afraid it won't,"
began Polly,
who,
not being used
to secrets,
found it very hard
to keep even a small one.

"Don't worry,
child.

It
's none of our business;
so we can go and enjoy the music,
and if other people flirt,
it won't be our fault,"
said Fanny,
impatiently.

"Of course not;
but,
then,
if your father don't like you
to do so,
ought you
to go?"
"I tell mamma,
and she don't care.

Papa is fussy,
and grandma makes a stir about every blessed thing I do.

You will hold your tongue,
won't you?"
"Yes;
I truly will;
I never tell tales."

And Polly kept her word,
feeling sure Fan did n't mean
to deceive her father,
since she told her mother everything.

"Who are you going with?"
asked Mrs. Shaw,
when Fanny mentioned that it was concert-day,
just before three o'clock.

"Only Polly;
she likes music,
and it was so stormy I could n't go last week,
you know,"
answered Fan;
adding,
as they left the house again,
"If any one meets us on the way,
I can't help it,
can I?"
"You can tell them not to,
can't you?"
"That
's rude.

Dear me! here
's Belle's brother Gus he always goes.

Is my hair all right,
and my hat?

Before Polly could answer,
Mr. Gus joined them as a matter of course,
and Polly soon found herself trotting on behind,
feeling that things were not
"all right,"
though she did n't know how
to mend them.

Being fond of music,
she ignorantly supposed that every one else went
for that alone,
and was much disturbed by the whispering that went on among the young people round her.

Belle and Trix were there in full dress;
and,
in the pauses between different pieces,
Messrs.

Frank and Gus,
with several other
"splendid fellows,"
regaled the young ladies
with college gossip,
and bits of news full of interest,
to judge from the close attention paid
to their eloquent remarks.

Polly regarded these noble beings
with awe,
and they recognized her existence
with the condescension of their sex;
but they evidently considered her only
"a quiet little thing,"
and finding her not up
to society talk,
blandly ignored the pretty child,
and devoted themselves
to the young ladies.

Fortunately
for Polly,
she forgot all about them in her enjoyment of the fine music,
which she felt rather than understood,
and sat listening
with such a happy face,
that several true music-lovers watched her smilingly,
for her heart gave a blithe welcome
to the melody which put the little instrument in tune.

It was dusk when they went out,
and Polly was much relieved
to find the carriage waiting
for them,
because playing third fiddle was not
to her taste,
and she had had enough of it
for one day.

"I
'm glad those men are gone;
they did worry me so talking,
when I wanted
to hear,"
said Polly,
as they rolled away.

"Which did you like best?"
asked Fanny,
with a languid air of superiority.

"The plain one,
who did n't say much;
he picked up my muff when it tumbled down,
and took care of me in the crowd;
the others did n't mind anything about me."

"They thought you were a little girl,
I suppose."

"My mother says a real gentleman is as polite
to a little girl as
to a woman;
so I like Mr. Sydney best,
because he was kind
to me."

"What a sharp child you are,
Polly.

I should n't have thought you
'd mind things like that,"
said Fanny,
beginning
to understand that there may be a good deal of womanliness even in a little girl.

"I
'm used
to good manners,
though I do live in the country,"
replied Polly,
rather warmly,
for she did n't like
to be patronized even by her friends.

"Grandma says your mother is a perfect lady,
and you are just like her;
so don't get in a passion
with those poor fellows,
and I
'll see that they behave better next time.

Tom has no manners at all,
and you don't complain of him,"
added Fan,
with a laugh.

"I don't care if he has n't;
he
's a boy,
and acts like one,
and I can get on
with him a great deal better than I can
with those men."

Fanny was just going
to take Polly
to task
for saying
"those men"
in such a disrespectful tone,
when both were startled by a smothered
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
from under the opposite seat.

"It
's Tom!"
cried Fanny;
and
with the words out tumbled that incorrigible boy,
red in the face,
and breathless
with suppressed laughter.

Seating himself,
he surveyed the girls as if well satisfied
with the success of his prank,
and waiting
to be congratulated upon it.

"Did you hear what we were saying?"
demanded Fanny,
uneasily.

"Oh,
did n't I,
every word?"
And Tom exulted over them visibly.

"Did you ever see such a provoking toad,
Polly?

Now,
I suppose you
'll go and tell papa a great story."

"P'r'aps I shall,
and p'r'aps I shan't.

How Polly did hop when I crowed! I heard her squeal,
and saw her cuddle up her feet."

"And you heard us praise your manners,
did n't you?"
asked Polly,
slyly.

"Yes,
and you liked
'em;
so I won't tell on you,"
said Tom,
with a re-assuring nod.

"There
's nothing
to tell."

"Ain't there,
though?

What do you suppose the governor will say
to you girls going on so
with those dandies?

I saw you."

"What has the Governor of Massachusetts
to do
with us?"
asked Polly,
trying
to look as if she meant what she said.

"Pooh! you know who I mean;
so you need n't try
to catch me up,
as grandma does."

"Tom,
I
'll make a bargain
with you,"
cried Fanny,
eagerly.

"It was n't my fault that Gus and Frank were there,
and I could n't help their speaking
to me.

I do as well as I can,
and papa need n't be angry;
for I behave ever so much better than some of the girls.

Don't I,
Polly?"
"Bargain?"
observed Tom,
with an eye
to business.

"If you won't go and make a fuss,
telling what you
'd no right
to hear it was so mean
to hide and listen;
I should think you
'd be ashamed of it! I
'll help you tease
for your velocipede,
and won't say a word against it,
when mamma and granny beg papa not
to let you have it."

"Will you?"
and Tom paused
to consider the offer in all its bearings.

"Yes,
and Polly will help;
won't you?"
"I
'd rather not have anything
to do
with it;
but I
'll be quiet,
and not do any harm."

"Why won't you?"
asked Tom,
curiously.

"Because it seems like deceiving."

"Well,
papa need n't be so fussy,"
said Fan,
petulantly.

"After hearing about that Carrie,
and the rest,
I don't wonder he is fussy.

Why don't you tell right out,
and not do it any more,
if he don't want you to?"
said Polly,
persuasively.

"Do you go and tell your father and mother everything right out?"
"Yes,
I do;
and it saves ever so much trouble."

"Ain't you afraid of them?"
"Of course I
'm not.

It
's hard
to tell sometimes;
but it
's so comfortable when it
's over."

"Let
's!"
was Tom's brief advice.

"Mercy me! what a fuss about nothing!"
said Fanny,
ready
to cry
with vexation.

"T is n't nothing.

You know you are forbidden
to go gallivanting round
with those chaps,
and that
's the reason you
're in a pucker now.

I won't make any bargain,
and I will tell,"
returned Tom,
seized
with a sudden fit of moral firmness.

"Will you if I promise never,
never
to do so any more?"
asked Fanny,
meekly;
for when Thomas took matters into his own hands,
his sister usually submitted in spite of herself.

"I
'll think about it;
and if you behave,
maybe I won't do it at all.

I can watch you better than papa can;
so,
if you try it again,
it
's all up
with you,
miss,"
said Tom,
finding it impossible
to resist the pleasure of tyrannizing a little when he got the chance.

"She won't;
don't plague her any more,
and she will be good
to you when you get into scrapes,"
answered Polly,
with her arm round Fan.

"I never do;
and if I did,
I should n't ask a girl
to help me out."

"Why not?

I
'd ask you in a minute,
if I was in trouble,"
said Polly,
in her confiding way.

"Would you?

Well,
I
'd put you through,
as sure as my name
's Tom Shaw.

Now,
then,
don't slip,
Polly,"
and Mr. Thomas helped them out
with unusual politeness,
for that friendly little speech gratified him.

He felt that one person appreciated him;
and it had a good effect upon manners and temper made rough and belligerent by constant snubbing and opposition.

After tea that evening,
Fanny proposed that Polly should show her how
to make molasses candy,
as it was cook's holiday,
and the coast would be clear.

Hoping
to propitiate her tormentor,
Fan invited Tom
to join in the revel,
and Polly begged that Maud might sit up and see the fun;
so all four descended
to the big kitchen,
armed
with aprons,
hammers,
spoons,
and pans,
and Polly assumed command of the forces.

Tom was set
to cracking nuts,
and Maud
to picking out the meats,
for the candy was
to be
"tip-top."

Fan waited on Polly cook,
who hovered over the kettle of boiling molasses till her face was the color of a peony.

"Now,
put in the nuts,"
she said at last;
and Tom emptied his plate into the foamy syrup,
while the others watched
with deep interest the mysterious concoction of this well-beloved sweetmeat.

"I pour it into the buttered pan,
you see,
and it cools,
and then we can eat it,"
explained Polly,
suiting the action
to the word.

"Why,
it
's all full of shells!"
exclaimed Maud,
peering into the pan.

"Oh,
thunder! I must have put
'em in by mistake,
and ate up the meats without thinking,"
said Tom,
trying
to conceal his naughty satisfaction,
as the girls hung over the pan
with faces full of disappointment and despair.

"You did it on purpose,
you horrid boy! I
'll never let you have anything
to do
with my fun again!"
cried Fan,
in a passion,
trying
to catch and shake him,
while he dodged and chuckled in high glee.

Maud began
to wail over her lost delight,
and Polly gravely poked at the mess,
which was quite spoilt.

But her attention was speedily diverted by the squabble going on in the corner;
for Fanny,
forgetful of her young-ladyism and her sixteen years,
had boxed Tom's ears,
and Tom,
resenting the insult,
had forcibly seated her in the coal-hod,
where he held her
with one hand while he returned the compliment
with the other.

Both were very angry,
and kept twitting one another
with every aggravation they could invent,
as they scolded and scuffled,
presenting a most unlovely spectacle.

Polly was not a model girl by any means,
and had her little pets and tempers like the rest of us;
but she did n't fight,
scream,
and squabble
with her brothers and sisters in this disgraceful way,
and was much surprised
to see her elegant friend in such a passion.

"Oh,
don't! Please,
don't! You
'll hurt her,
Tom! Let him go,
Fanny! It
's no matter about the candy;
we can make some more!"
cried Polly,
trying
to part them,
and looking so distressed,
that they stopped ashamed,
and in a minute sorry that she should see such a display of temper.

"I ain't going
to be hustled round;
so you
'd better let me alone,
Fan,"
said Tom,
drawing off
with a threatening wag of the head,
adding,
in a different tone,
"I only put the shells in
for fun,
Polly.

You cook another kettleful,
and I
'll pick you some meats all fair.

Will you?"
"It
's pretty hot work,
and it
's a pity
to waste things;
but I
'll try again,
if you want me to,"
said Polly,
with a patient sigh,
for her arms were tired and her face uncomfortably hot.

"We don't want you;
get away!"
said Maud,
shaking a sticky spoon at him.

"Keep quiet,
cry-baby.

I
'm going
to stay and help;
may n't I,
Polly?"
"Bears like sweet things,
so you want some candy,
I guess.

Where is the molasses?

We
've used up all there was in the jug,"
said Polly,
good-naturedly,
beginning again.

"Down cellar;
I
'll get it;"
and taking the lamp and jug,
Tom departed,
bent on doing his duty now like a saint.

The moment his light vanished,
Fanny bolted the door,
saying,
spitefully,
"Now,
we are safe from any more tricks.

Let him thump and call,
it only serves him right;
and when the candy is done,
we
'll let the rascal out."

"How can we make it without molasses?"
asked Polly,
thinking that would settle the matter.

"There
's plenty in the store-room.

No;
you shan't let him up till I
'm ready.

He
's got
to learn that I
'm not
to be shaken by a little chit like him.

Make your candy,
and let him alone,
or I
'll go and tell papa,
and then Tom will get a lecture."

Polly thought it was n't fair;
but Maud clamored
for her candy,
and finding she could do nothing
to appease Fan,
Polly devoted her mind
to her cookery till the nuts were safely in,
and a nice panful set in the yard
to cool.

A few bangs at the locked door,
a few threats of vengeance from the prisoner,
such as setting the house on fire,
drinking up the wine,
and mashing the jelly-pots,
and then all was so quiet that the girls forgot him in the exciting crisis of their work.

"He can't possibly get out anywhere,
and as soon we
've cut up the candy,
we
'll unbolt the door and run.

Come and get a nice dish
to put it in,"
said Fan,
when Polly proposed
to go halves
with Tom,
lest he should come bursting in somehow,
and seize the whole.

When they came down
with the dish in which
to set forth their treat,
and opened the back-door
to find it,
imagine their dismay on discovering that it was gone,
pan,
candy,
and all,
utterly and mysteriously gone! A general lament arose,
when a careful rummage left no hopes;
for the fates had evidently decreed at candy was not
to prosper on this unpropitious night.

"The hot pan has melted and sunk in the snow perhaps,"
said Fanny,
digging into the drift where it was left.

"Those old cats have got it,
I guess,"
suggested Maud,
too much overwhelmed by this second blow
to howl as usual.

"The gate is n't locked,
and some beggar has stolen it.

I hope it will do him good,"
added Polly,
turning from her exploring expedition.

"If Tom could get out,
I should think he
'd carried it off;
but not being a rat,
he can't go through the bits of windows;
so it was n't him,"
said Fanny,
disconsolately,
for she began
to think this double loss a punishment
for letting angry passions rise,
"Let
's open the door and tell him about it,"
proposed Polly.

"He
'll crow over us.

No;
we
'll open it and go
to bed,
and he can come out when he likes.

Provoking boy! if he had n't plagued us so,
we should have had a nice time."

Unbolting the cellar door,
the girls announced
to the invisible captive that they were through,
and then departed much depressed.

Half-way up the second flight,
they all stopped as suddenly as if they had seen a ghost;
for looking over the banisters was Tom's face,
crocky but triumphant,
and in either hand a junk of candy,
which he waved above them as he vanished,
with the tantalizing remark,
"Don't you wish you had some?"
"How in the world did he get out?"
cried Fanny,
steadying herself after a start that nearly sent all three tumbling down stairs.

"Coal-hole!"
answered a spectral voice from the gloom above.

"Good gracious! He must have poked up the cover,
climbed into the street,
stole the candy,
and sneaked in at the shed-window while we were looking
for it."

"Cats got it,
did n't they?"
jeered the voice in a tone that made Polly sit down and laugh till she could n't laugh any longer.

"Just give Maud a bit,
she
's so disappointed.

Fan and I are sick of it,
and so will you be,
if you eat it all,"
called Polly,
when she got her breath.

"Go
to bed,
Maudie,
and look under your pillow when you get there,"
was the oracular reply that came down
to them,
as Tom's door closed after a jubilant solo on the tin pan.

The girls went
to bed tired out;
and Maud slumbered placidly,
hugging the sticky bundle,
found where molasses candy is not often discovered.

Polly was very tired,
and soon fell asleep;
but Fanny,
who slept
with her,
lay awake longer than usual,
thinking about her troubles,
for her head ached,
and the dissatisfaction that follows anger would not let her rest
with the tranquillity that made the rosy face in the little round nightcap such a pleasant sight
to see as it lay beside her.

The gas was turned down,
but Fanny saw a figure in a gray wrapper creep by her door,
and presently return,
pausing
to look in.

"Who is it?"
she cried,
so loud that Polly woke.

"Only me,
dear,"
answered grandma's mild voice.

"Poor Tom has got a dreadful toothache,
and I came down
to find some creosote
for him.

He told me not
to tell you;
but I can't find the bottle,
and don't want
to disturb mamma."

"It
's in my closet.

Old Tom will pay
for his trick this time,"
said Fanny,
in a satisfied tone.

"I thought he
'd get enough of our candy,"
laughed Polly;
and then they fell asleep,
leaving Tom
to the delights of toothache and the tender mercies of kind old grandma.

CHAPTER III POLLY'S TROUBLES POLLY soon found that she was in a new world,
a world where the manners and customs were so different from the simple ways at home,
that she felt like a stranger in a strange land,
and often wished that she had not come.

In the first place,
she had nothing
to do but lounge and gossip,
read novels,
parade the streets,
and dress;
and before a week was gone,
she was as heartily sick of all this,
as a healthy person would be who attempted
to live on confectionery.

Fanny liked it,
because she was used
to it,
and had never known anything better;
but Polly had,
and often felt like a little wood-bird shut up in a gilded cage.

Nevertheless,
she was much impressed by the luxuries all about her,
enjoyed them,
wished she owned them,
and wondered why the Shaws were not a happier family.

She was not wise enough
to know where the trouble lay;
she did not attempt
to say which of the two lives was the right one;
she only knew which she liked best,
and supposed it was merely another of her
"old-fashioned"
ways.

Fanny's friends did not interest her much;
she was rather afraid of them,
they seemed so much older and wiser than herself,
even those younger in years.

They talked about things of which she knew nothing and when Fanny tried
to explain,
she did n't find them interesting;
indeed,
some of them rather shocked and puzzled her;
so the girls let her alone,
being civil when they met,
but evidently feeling that she was too
"odd"
to belong
to their set.

Then she turned
to Maud
for companionship,
for her own little sister was excellent company,
and Polly loved her dearly.

But Miss Maud was much absorbed in her own affairs,
for she belonged
to a
"set"
also;
and these mites of five and six had their
"musicals,"
their parties,
receptions,
and promenades,
as well as their elders;
and,
the chief idea of their little lives seemed
to be
to ape the fashionable follies they should have been too innocent
to understand.

Maud had her tiny card-case,
and paid calls,
"like mamma and Fan";
her box of dainty gloves,
her jewel-drawer,
her crimping-pins,
as fine and fanciful a wardrobe as a Paris doll,
and a French maid
to dress her.

Polly could n't get on
with her at first,
for Maud did n't seem like a child,
and often corrected Polly in her conversation and manners,
though little mademoiselle's own were anything but perfect.

Now and then,
when Maud felt poorly,
or had a
"fwactious"
turn,
for she had
"nerves"
as well as mamma,
she would go
to Polly to
"be amoosed,"
for her gentle ways and kind forbearance soothed the little fine lady better than anything else.

Polly enjoyed these times,
and told stories,
played games,
or went out walking,
just as Maud liked,
slowly and surely winning the child's heart,
and relieving the whole house of the young tyrant who ruled it.

Tom soon got over staring at Polly,
and at first did not take much notice of her,
for,
in his opinion,
"girls did n't amount
to much,
anyway";
and,
considering,
the style of girl he knew most about,
Polly quite agreed
with him.

He occasionally refreshed himself by teasing her,
to see how she
'd stand it,
and caused Polly much anguish of spirit,
for she never knew where he would take her next.

He bounced out at her from behind doors,
booed at her in dark entries,
clutched her feet as she went up stairs,
startled her by shrill whistles right in her ear,
or sudden tweaks of the hair as he passed her in the street;
and as sure as there was company
to dinner,
he fixed his round eyes on her,
and never took them off till she was reduced
to a piteous state of confusion and distress.

She used
to beg him not
to plague her;
but he said he did it
for her good;
she was too shy,
and needed toughening like the other girls.

In vain she protested that she did n't want
to be like the other girls in that respect;
he only laughed in her face,
stuck his red hair straight up all over his head,
and glared at her,
till she fled in dismay.

Yet Polly rather liked Tom,
for she soon saw that he was neglected,
hustled out of the way,
and left
to get on pretty much by himself.

She often wondered why his mother did n't pet him as she did the girls;
why his father ordered him about as if he was a born rebel,
and took so little interest in his only son.

Fanny considered him a bear,
and was ashamed of him;
but never tried
to polish him up a bit;
and Maud and he lived together like a cat and dog who did not belong
to a
"happy family."

Grandma was the only one who stood by poor old Tom;
and Polly more than once discovered him doing something kind
for Madam,
and seeming very much ashamed when it was found out.

He was n't respectful at all;
he called her
"the old lady,"
and told her he
"would n't be fussed over";
but when anything was the matter,
he always went to
"the old lady,"
and was very grateful
for the
"fussing."

Polly liked him
for this,
and often wanted
to speak of it;
but she had a feeling that it would n't do,
for in praising their affection,
she was reproaching others
with neglect;
so she held her tongue,
and thought about it all the more.

Grandma was rather neglected,
too,
and perhaps that is the reason why Tom and she were such good friends.

She was even more old-fashioned than Polly;
but people did n't seem
to mind it so much in her,
as her day was supposed
to be over,
and nothing was expected of her but
to keep out of everybody's way,
and
to be handsomely dressed when she appeared
"before people."

Grandma led a quiet,
solitary life in her own rooms,
full of old furniture,
pictures,
books,
and relics of a past
for which no one cared but herself.

Her son went up every evening
for a little call,
was very kind
to her,
and saw that she wanted nothing money could buy;
but he was a busy man,
so intent on getting rich that he had no time
to enjoy what he already possessed.

Madam never complained,
interfered,
or suggested;
but there was a sad sort of quietude about her,
a wistful look in her faded eyes,
as if she wanted something which money could not buy,
and when children were near,
she hovered about them,
evidently longing
to cuddle and caress them as only grandmothers can.

Polly felt this;
and as she missed the home-petting,
gladly showed that she liked
to see the quiet old face brighten,
as she entered the solitary room,
where few children came,
except the phantoms of little sons and daughters,
who,
to the motherly heart that loved them,
never faded or grew up.

Polly wished the children would be kinder
to grandma;
but it was not
for her
to tell them so,
although it troubled her a good deal,
and she could only try
to make up
for it by being as dutiful and affectionate as if their grandma was her own.

Another thing that disturbed Polly was the want of exercise.

To dress up and parade certain streets
for an hour every day,
to stand talking in doorways,
or drive out in a fine carriage,
was not the sort of exercise she liked,
and Fan would take no other.

Indeed,
she was so shocked,
when Polly,
one day,
proposed a run down the mall,
that her friend never dared suggest such a thing again.

At home,
Polly ran and rode,
coasted and skated,
jumped rope and raked hay,
worked in her garden and rowed her boat;
so no wonder she longed
for something more lively than a daily promenade
with a flock of giddy girls,
who tilted along in high-heeled boots,
and costumes which made Polly ashamed
to be seen
with some of them.

So she used
to slip out alone sometimes,
when Fanny was absorbed in novels,
company,
or millinery,
and get fine brisk walks round the park,
on the unfashionable side,
where the babies took their airings;
or she went inside,
to watch the boys coasting,
and
to wish she could coast too,
as she did at home.

She never went far,
and always came back rosy and gay.

One afternoon,
just before dinner,
she felt so tired of doing nothing,
that she slipped out
for a run.

It had been a dull day;
but the sun was visible now,
setting brightly below the clouds.

It was cold but still and Polly trotted down the smooth,
snow-covered mall humming
to herself,
and trying not
to feel homesick.

The coasters were at it
with all their might,
and she watched them,
till her longing
to join the fun grew irresistible.

On the hill,
some little girls were playing
with their sleds,
real little girls,
in warm hoods and coats,
rubber boots and mittens,
and Polly felt drawn toward them in spite of her fear of Fan.

"I want
to go down,
but I dars n't,
it
's so steep,"
said one of these
"common children,"
as Maud called them.

"If you
'll lend me your sled,
and sit in my lap,
I
'll take you down all nice,"
answered Polly,
in a confidential tone.

The little girls took a look at her,
seemed satisfied,
and accepted her offer.

Polly looked carefully round
to see that no fashionable eye beheld the awful deed,
and finding all safe,
settled her freight,
and spun away down hill,
feeling all over the delightsome excitement of swift motion which makes coasting such a favorite pastime
with the more sensible portion of the child-world.

One after another,
she took the little girls down the hill and dragged them up again,
while they regarded her in the light of a gray-coated angel,
descended
for their express benefit.

Polly was just finishing off
with one delicious
"go"
all by herself,
when she heard a familiar whistle behind her,
and before she could get off,
up came Tom,
looking as much astonished as if he had found her mounted,
on an elephant.

"Hullo,
Polly! What
'll Fan say
to you?"
was his polished salutation.

"Don't know,
and don't care.

Coasting is no harm;
I like it,
and I
'm going
to do it,
now I
've got a chance;
so clear the lul-la!"
And away went independent Polly,
with her hair blowing in the wind,
and an expression of genuine enjoyment,
which a very red nose did n't damage in the least.

"Good
for you,
Polly!"
And casting himself upon his sled,
with the most reckless disregard
for his ribs,
off whizzed Tom after her,
and came alongside just as she reined up
"General Grant"
on the broad path below.

"Oh,
won't you get it when we go home?"
cried the young gentleman,
even before he changed his graceful attitude.

"I shan't,
if you don't go and tell;
but of course you will,"
added Polly,
sitting still,
while an anxious expression began
to steal over her happy face.

"I just won't,
then,"
returned Tom,
with the natural perversity of his tribe.

"If they ask me,
I shall tell,
of course;
if they don't ask,
I think there
's no harm in keeping still.

I should n't have done it,
if I had n't known my mother was willing;
but I don't wish
to trouble your mother by telling of it.

Do you think it was very dreadful of me?"
asked Polly,
looking at him.

"I think it was downright jolly;
and I won't tell,
if you don't want me to.

Now,
come up and have another,"
said Tom,
heartily.

"Just one more;
the little girls want
to go,
this is their sled."

"Let
'em take it,
it is n't good
for much;
and you come on mine.

Mazeppa's a stunner;
you see if he is n't."

So Polly tucked herself up in front,
Tom hung on behind in some mysterious manner,
and Mazeppa proved that he fully merited his master's sincere if inelegant praise.

They got on capitally now,
for Tom was in his proper sphere,
and showed his best side,
being civil and gay in the bluff boy-fashion that was natural
to him;
while Polly forgot
to be shy,
and liked this sort of
"toughening"
much better than the other.

They laughed and talked,
and kept taking
"just one more,"
till the sunshine was all gone,
and the clocks struck dinner-time.

"We shall be late;
let
's run,"
said Polly,
as they came into the path after the last coast.

"You just sit still,
and I
'll get you home in a jiffy;"
and before she could unpack herself,
Tom trotted off
with her at a fine pace.

"Here
's a pair of cheeks! I wish you
'd get a color like this,
Fanny,"
said Mr. Shaw,
as Polly came into the dining-room after smoothing her hair.

"Your nose is as red as that cranberry sauce,"
answered Fan,
coming out of the big chair where she had been curled up
for an hour or two,
deep in
"Lady Audley's Secret."

"So it is,"
said Polly,
shutting one eye
to look at the offending feature.

"Never mind;
I
've had a good time,
anyway,"
she added,
giving a little prance in her chair.

"I don't see much fun in these cold runs you are so fond of taking,"
said Fanny,
with a yawn and a shiver.

"Perhaps you would if you tried it;"
and Polly laughed as she glanced at Tom.

"Did you go alone,
dear?"
asked grandma,
patting the rosy cheek beside her.

"Yes
'm;
but I met Tom,
and we came home together."

Polly's eyes twinkled when she said that,
and Tom choked in his soup.

"Thomas,
leave the table!"
commanded Mr. Shaw,
as his incorrigible son gurgled and gasped behind his napkin.

"Please don't send him away,
sir.

I made him laugh,"
said Polly,
penitently.

"What's the joke?"
asked Fanny,
waking up at last.

"I should n't think you
'd make him laugh,
when he
's always making you cwy,"
observed Maud,
who had just come in.

"What have you been doing now,
sir?"
demanded Mr. Shaw,
as Tom emerged,
red and solemn,
from his brief obscurity.

"Nothing but coast,"
he said,
gruffly,
for papa was always lecturing him,
and letting the girls do just as they liked.

"So
's Polly;
I saw her.

Me and Blanche were coming home just now,
and we saw her and Tom widing down the hill on his sled,
and then he dwagged her ever so far!"
cried Maud,
with her mouth full.

"You did n't?"
and Fanny dropped her fork
with a scandalized face.

"Yes,
I did,
and liked it ever so much,"
answered Polly,
looking anxious but resolute.

"Did any one see you?"
cried Fanny.

"Only some little girls,
and Tom."

"It was horridly improper;
and Tom ought
to have told you so,
if you did n't know any better.

I should be mortified
to death if any of my friends saw you,"
added Fan,
much disturbed.

"Now,
don't you scold.

It
's no harm,
and Polly shall coast if she wants to;
may n't she,
grandma?"
cried Tom,
gallantly coming
to the rescue,
and securing a powerful ally.

"My mother lets me;
and if I don't go among the boys,
I can't see what harm there is in it,"
said Polly,
before Madam could speak.

"People do many things in the country that are not proper here,"
began Mrs. Shaw,
in her reproving tone.

"Let the child do it if she likes,
and take Maud
with her.

I should be glad
to have one hearty girl in my house,"
interrupted Mr. Shaw,
and that was the end of it.

"Thank you,
sir,"
said Polly,
gratefully,
and nodded at Tom,
who telegraphed back
"All right!"
and fell upon his dinner
with the appetite of a young wolf.

"Oh,
you sly-boots! you
're getting up a flirtation
with Tom,
are you?"
whispered Fanny
to her friend,
as if much amused.

"What!"
and Polly looked so surprised and indignant,
that Fanny was ashamed of herself,
and changed the subject by telling her mother she needed some new gloves.

Polly was very quiet after that,
and the minute dinner was over,
she left the room
to go and have a quiet
"think"
about the whole matter.

Before she got half-way up stairs,
she saw Tom coming after,
and immediately sat down
to guard her feet.

He laughed,
and said,
as he perched himself on the post of the banisters,
"I won't grab you,
honor bright.

I just wanted
to say,
if you
'll come out to-morrow some time,
we
'll have a good coast."

"No,"
said Polly,
"I can't come."

"Why not?

Are you mad?

I did n't tell."

And Tom looked amazed at the change which had come over her.

"No;
you kept your word,
and stood by me like a good boy.

I
'm not mad,
either;
but I don't mean
to coast any more.

Your mother don't like it."

"That is n't the reason,
I know.

You nodded
to me after she
'd freed her mind,
and you meant
to go then.

Come,
now,
what is it?"
"I shan't tell you;
but I
'm not going,"
was Polly's determined answer.

"Well,
I did think you had more sense than most girls;
but you have n't,
and I would n't give a sixpence
for you."

"That
's polite,"
said Polly,
getting ruffled.

"Well,
I hate cowards."

"I ain't a coward."

"Yes,
you are.

You
're afraid of what folks will say;
ain't you,
now?"
Polly knew she was,
and held her peace,
though she longed
to speak;
but how could she?

"Ah,
I knew you
'd back out."

And Tom walked away
with an air of scorn that cut Polly
to the heart.

"It
's too bad! Just as he was growing kind
to me,
and I was going
to have a good time,
it
's all spoilt by Fan's nonsense.

Mrs. Shaw don't like it,
nor grandma either,
I dare say.

There
'll be a fuss if I go,
and Fan will plague me;
so I
'll give it up,
and let Tom think I
'm afraid.

Oh,
dear! I never did see such ridiculous people."

Polly shut her door hard,
and felt ready
to cry
with vexation,
that her pleasure should be spoilt by such a silly idea;
for,
of all the silly freaks of this fast age,
that of little people playing at love is about the silliest.

Polly had been taught that it was a very serious and sacred thing;
and,
according
to her notions,
it was far more improper
to flirt
with one boy than
to coast
with a dozen.

She had been much amazed,
only the day before,
to hear Maud say
to her mother,
"Mamma,
must I have a beau?

The girls all do,
and say I ought
to have Fweddy Lovell;
but I don't like him as well as Hawry Fiske."

"Oh,
yes;
I
'd have a little sweetheart,
dear,
it
's so cunning,"
answered Mrs. Shaw.

And Maud announced soon after that she was engaged to
"Fweddy,
'cause Hawry slapped her"
when she proposed the match.

Polly laughed
with the rest at the time;
but when she thought of it afterward,
and wondered what her own mother would have said,
if little Kitty had put such a question,
she did n't find it cunning or funny,
but ridiculous and unnatural.

She felt so now about herself;
and when her first petulance was over,
resolved
to give up coasting and everything else,
rather than have any nonsense
with Tom,
who,
thanks
to his neglected education,
was as ignorant as herself of the charms of this new amusement
for school-children.

So Polly tried
to console herself by jumping rope in the back-yard,
and playing tag
with Maud in the drying-room,
where she likewise gave lessons in
"nas-gim-nics,"
as Maud called it,
which did that little person good.

Fanny came up sometimes
to teach them a new dancing step,
and more than once was betrayed into a game of romps,
for which she was none the worse.

But Tom turned a cold shoulder
to Polly,
and made it evident,
by his cavalier manner that he really did n't think her
"worth a sixpence."

Another thing that troubled Polly was her clothes,
for,
though no one said anything,
she knew they were very plain;
and now and then she wished that her blue and mouse colored merinos were rather more trimmed,
her sashes had bigger bows,
and her little ruffles more lace on them.

She sighed
for a locket,
and,
for the first time in her life,
thought seriously of turning up her pretty curls and putting on a
"wad."

She kept these discontents
to herself,
however,
after she had written
to ask her mother if she might have her best dress altered like Fanny's,
and received this reply:

"No,
dear;
the dress is proper and becoming as it is,
and the old fashion of simplicity the best
for all of us.

I don't want my Polly
to be loved
for her clothes,
but
for herself;
so wear the plain frocks mother took such pleasure in making
for you,
and let the panniers go.

The least of us have some influence in this big world;
and perhaps my little girl can do some good by showing others that a contented heart and a happy face are better ornaments than any Paris can give her.

You want a locket,
deary;
so I send one that my mother gave me years ago.

You will find father's face on one side,
mine on the other;
and when things trouble you,
just look at your talisman,
and I think the sunshine will come back again."

Of course it did,
for the best of all magic was shut up in the quaint little case that Polly wore inside her frock,
and kissed so tenderly each night and morning.

The thought that,
insignificant as she was,
she yet might do some good,
made her very careful of her acts and words,
and so anxious
to keep head contented and face happy,
that she forgot her clothes,
and made others do the same.

She did not know it,
but that good old fashion of simplicity made the plain gowns pretty,
and the grace of unconsciousness beautified their little wearer
with the charm that makes girlhood sweetest
to those who truly love and reverence it.

One temptation Polly had already yielded
to before the letter came,
and repented heartily of afterward.

"Polly,
I wish you
'd let me call you Marie,"
said Fanny one day,
as they were shopping together.

"You may call me Mary,
if you like;
but I won't have any ie put on
to my name.

I
'm Polly at home and I
'm fond of being called so;
but Marie is Frenchified and silly."

"I spell my own name
with an ie,
and so do all the girls."

"And what a jumble of Netties,
Nellies,
Hatties,
and Sallies there is.

How
'Pollie'
would look spelt so!"
"Well,
never mind;
that was n't what I began
to say.

There
's one thing you must have,
and that is,
bronze boots,"
said Fan,
impressively.

"Why must I,
when I
've got enough without?"
"Because it
's the fashion
to have them,
and you can't be finished off properly without.

I
'm going
to get a pair,
and so must you."

"Don't they cost a great deal?"
"Eight or nine dollars,
I believe.

I have mine charged;
but it don't matter if you have n't got the money.

I can lend you some."

"I
've got ten dollars
to do what I like with;
but it
's meant
to get some presents
for the children."

And Polly took out her purse in an undecided way.

"You can make presents easy enough.

Grandma knows all sorts of nice contrivances.

They
'll do just as well;
and then you can get your boots."

"Well;
I
'll look at them,"
said Polly,
following Fanny into the store,
feeling rather rich and important
to be shopping in this elegant manner.

"Are n't they lovely?

Your foot is perfectly divine in that boot,
Polly.

Get them
for my party;
you
'll dance like a fairy,"
whispered Fan.

Polly surveyed the dainty,
shining boot
with the scalloped top,
the jaunty heel,
and the delicate toe,
thought her foot did look very well in it,
and after a little pause,
said she would have them.

It was all very delightful till she got home,
and was alone;
then,
on looking into her purse,
she saw one dollar and the list of things she meant
to get
for mother and the children.

How mean the dollar looked all alone! and how long the list grew when there was nothing
to buy the articles.

"I can't make skates
for Ned,
nor a desk
for Will;
and those are what they have set their hearts upon.

Father's book and mother's collar are impossible now;
and I
'm a selfish thing
to go and spend all my money
for myself.

How could I do it?"
And Polly eyed the new boots reproachfully,
as they stood in the first position as if ready
for the party.

"They are lovely;
but I don't believe they will feel good,
for I shall be thinking about my lost presents all the time,"
sighed Polly,
pushing the enticing boots out of sight.

"I
'll go and ask grandma what I can do;
for if I
've got
to make something
for every one,
I must begin right away,
or I shan't get done;"
and off she bustled,
glad
to forget her remorse in hard work.

Grandma proved equal
to the emergency,
and planned something
for every one,
supplying materials,
taste,
and skill in the most delightful manner.

Polly felt much comforted;
but while she began
to knit a pretty pair of white bed-socks,
to be tied
with rose-colored ribbons,
for her mother,
she thought some very sober thoughts upon the subject of temptation;
and if any one had asked her just then what made her sigh,
as if something lay heavy on her conscience,
she would have answered,
"Bronze boots."

CHAPTER IV LITTLE THINGS
"IT
'S so wainy,
I can't go out,
and evwybody is so cwoss they won't play
with me,"
said Maud,
when Polly found her fretting on the stairs,
and paused
to ask the cause of her wails.

"I
'll play
with you;
only don't scream and wake your mother.

What shall we play?"
"I don't know;
I
'm tired of evwything,
'cause my toys are all bwoken,
and my dolls are all sick but Clawa,"
moaned Maud,
giving a jerk
to the Paris doll which she held upside down by one leg in the most unmaternal manner.

"I
'm going
to dress a dolly
for my little sister;
would n't you like
to see me do it?"
asked Polly,
persuasively,
hoping
to beguile the cross child and finish her own work at the same time.

"No,
I should n't,
'cause she
'll look nicer than my Clawa.

Her clothes won't come off;
and Tom spoilt
'em playing ball
with her in the yard."

"Would n't you like
to rip these clothes off,
and have me show you how
to make some new ones,
so you can dress and undress Clara as much as you like?"
"Yes;
I love
to cut."

And Maud's,
face brightened;
for destructiveness is one of the earliest traits of childhood,
and ripping was Maud's delight.

Establishing themselves in the deserted dining-room,
the children fell
to work;
and when Fanny discovered them,
Maud was laughing
with all her heart at poor Clara,
who,
denuded of her finery,
was cutting up all sorts of capers in the hands of her merry little mistress.

"I should think you
'd be ashamed
to play
with dolls,
Polly.

I have n't touched one this ever so long,"
said Fanny,
looking down
with a superior air.

"I ain't ashamed,
for it keeps Maud happy,
and will please my sister Kitty;
and I think sewing is better than prinking or reading silly novels,
so,
now."

And Polly stitched away
with a resolute air,
for she and Fanny had had a little tiff;
because Polly would n't let her friend do up her hair
"like other folks,"
and bore her ears.

"Don't be cross,
dear,
but come and do something nice,
it
's so dull to-day,"
said Fanny,
anxious
to be friends again,
for it was doubly dull without Polly.

"Can't;
I
'm busy."

"You always are busy.

I never saw such a girl.

What in the world do you find
to do all the time?"
asked Fanny,
watching
with interest the set of the little red merino frock Polly was putting on
to her doll.

"Lots of things;
but I like
to be lazy sometimes as much as you do;
just lie on the sofa,
and read fairy stories,
or think about nothing.

Would you have a white-muslin apron or a black silk?"
added Polly,
surveying her work
with satisfaction.

"Muslin,
with pockets and tiny blue bows.

I
'll show you how."

And forgetting her hate and contempt
for dolls,
down sat Fanny,
soon getting as much absorbed as either of the others.

The dull day brightened wonderfully after that,
and the time flew pleasantly,
as tongues and needles went together.

Grandma peeped in,
and smiled at the busy group,
saying,
"Sew away,
my dears;
dollies are safe companions,
and needlework an accomplishment that
's sadly neglected nowadays.

Small stitches,
Maud;
neat buttonholes,
Fan;
cut carefully,
Polly,
and don't waste your cloth.

Take pains;
and the best needlewoman shall have a pretty bit of white satin
for a doll's bonnet."

Fanny exerted herself,
and won the prize,
for Polly helped Maud,
and neglected her own work;
but she did n't care much,
for Mr. Shaw said,
looking at the three bright faces at the tea-table,
"I guess Polly has been making sunshine
for you to-day."

"No,
indeed,
sir,
I have n't done anything,
only dress Maud's doll."

And Polly did n't think she had done much;
but it was one of the little things which are always waiting
to be done in this world of ours,
where rainy days come so often,
where spirits get out of tune,
and duty won't go hand in hand
with pleasure.

Little things of this sort are especially good work
for little people;
a kind little thought,
an unselfish little act,
a cheery little word,
are so sweet and comfortable,
that no one can fail
to feel their beauty and love the giver,
no matter how small they are.

Mothers do a deal of this sort of thing,
unseen,
unthanked,
but felt and remembered long afterward,
and never lost,
for this is the simple magic that binds hearts together,
and keeps home happy.

Polly had learned this secret.

She loved
to do the
"little things"
that others did not see,
or were too busy
to stop for;
and while doing them,
without a thought of thanks,
she made sunshine
for herself as well as others.

There was so much love in her own home,
that she quickly felt the want of it in Fanny's,
and puzzled herself
to find out why these people were not kind and patient
to one another.

She did not try
to settle the question,
but did her best
to love and serve and bear
with each,
and the good will,
the gentle heart,
the helpful ways and simple manners of our Polly made her dear
to every one,
for these virtues,
even in a little child,
are lovely and attractive.

Mr. Shaw was very kind
to her,
for he liked her modest,
respectful manners;
and Polly was so grateful
for his many favors,
that she soon forgot her fear,
and showed her affection in all sorts of confiding little ways,
which pleased him extremely.

She used
to walk across the park
with him when he went
to his office in the morning,
talking busily all the way,
and saying
"Good-by"
with a nod and a smile when they parted at the great gate.

At first,
Mr. Shaw did not care much about it;
but soon he missed her if she did not come,
and found that something fresh and pleasant seemed
to brighten all his day,
if a small,
gray-coated figure,
with an intelligent face,
a merry voice,
and a little hand slipped confidingly into his,
went
with him through the wintry park.

Coming home late,
he liked
to see a curly,
brown head watching at the window;
to find his slippers ready,
his paper in its place,
and a pair of willing feet,
eager
to wait upon him.

"I wish my Fanny was more like her,"
he often said
to himself,
as he watched the girls,
while they thought him deep in politics or the state of the money market.

Poor Mr. Shaw had been so busy getting rich,
that he had not found time
to teach his children
to love him;
he was more at leisure now,
and as his boy and girls grew up,
he missed something.

Polly was unconsciously showing him what it was,
and making child-love so sweet,
that he felt he could not do without it any more,
yet did n't quite know how
to win the confidence of the children,
who had always found him busy,
indifferent,
and absentminded.

As the girls were going
to bed one night,
Polly kissed grandma,
as usual,
and Fanny laughed at her,
saying,
"What a baby you are! We are too old
for such things now."

"I don't think people ever are too old
to kiss their fathers and mothers,"
was the quick answer.

"Right,
my little Polly;"
and Mr. Shaw stretched out his hand
to her
with such a kindly look,
that Fanny stared surprised,
and then said,
shyly,
"I thought you did n't care about it,
father."

"I do,
my dear:"
And Mr. Shaw put out the other hand
to Fanny,
who gave him a daughterly kiss,
quite forgetting everything but the tender feeling that sprung up in her heart at the renewal of the childish custom which we never need outgrow.

Mrs. Shaw was a nervous,
fussy invalid,
who wanted something every five minutes;
so Polly found plenty of small things
to do
for her and did,
them so cheerfully,
that the poor lady loved
to have the quiet,
helpful child near,
to wait upon her,
read
to her,
run errands,
or hand the seven different shawls which were continually being put on or off.

Grandma,
too,
was glad
to find willing hands and feet
to serve her;
and Polly passed many happy hours in the quaint rooms,
learning all sorts of pretty arts,
and listening
to pleasant chat,
never dreaming how much sunshine she brought
to the solitary old lady.

Tom was Polly's rock ahead
for a long time,
because he was always breaking out in a new place,
and one never knew where
to find him.

He tormented yet amused her;
was kind one day,
and a bear the next;
at times she fancied he was never going
to be bad again,
and the next thing she knew he was deep in mischief,
and hooted at the idea of repentance and reformation.

Polly gave him up as a hard case;
but was so in the habit of helping any one who seemed in trouble,
that she was good
to him simply because she could n't help it.

"What
's the matter?

Is your lesson too hard
for you?"
she asked one evening,
as a groan made her look across the table
to where Tom sat scowling over a pile of dilapidated books,
with his hands in his hair,
as if his head was in danger of flying asunder
with the tremendous effort he was making.

"Hard! Guess it is.

What in thunder do I care about the old Carthaginians?

Regulus was n't bad;
but I
'm sick of him!"
And Tom dealt
"Harkness's Latin Reader"
a thump,
which expressed his feelings better than words.

"I like Latin,
and used
to get on well when I studied it
with Jimmy.

Perhaps I can help you a little bit,"
said Polly,
as Tom wiped his hot face and refreshed himself
with a peanut.

"You?

pooh! girls'
Latin don't amount
to much anyway,"
was the grateful reply.

But Polly was used
to him now,
and,
nothing daunted,
took a look at the grimy page in the middle of which Tom had stuck.

She read it so well,
that the young gentleman stopped munching
to regard her
with respectful astonishment,
and when she stopped,
he said,
suspiciously,
"You are a sly one,
Polly,
to study up so you can show off before me.

But it won't do,
ma'am;
turn over a dozen pages,
and try again."

Polly obeyed,
and did even better than before,
saying,
as she looked up,
with a laugh,
"I
've been through the whole book;
so you won't catch me that way,
Tom."

"I say,
how came you
to know such a lot?"
asked Tom,
much impressed.

"I studied
with Jimmy,
and kept up
with him,
for father let us be together in all our lessons.

It was so nice,
and we learned so fast!"
"Tell me about Jimmy.

He
's your brother,
is n't he?"
"Yes;
but he
's dead,
you know.

I
'll tell about him some other time;
you ought
to study now,
and perhaps I can help you,"
said Polly,
with a little quiver of the lips.

"Should n't wonder if you could."

And Tom spread the book between them
with a grave and business-like air,
for he felt that Polly had got the better of him,
and it behooved him
to do his best
for the honor of his sex.

He went at the lesson
with a will,
and soon floundered out of his difficulties,
for Polly gave him a lift here and there,
and they went on swimmingly,
till they came
to some rules
to be learned.

Polly had forgotten them,
so they,
both committed them
to memory;
Tom,
with hands in his pockets,
rocked
to and fro,
muttering rapidly,
while Polly twisted the little curl on her forehead and stared at the wall,
gabbling
with all her might.

"Done!"
cried Tom,
presently.

"Done!"
echoed Polly;
and then they heard each other recite till both were perfect
"That
's pretty good fun,"
said Tom,
joyfully,
tossing poor Harkness away,
and feeling that the pleasant excitement of companionship could lend a charm even
to Latin Grammar.

"Now,
ma'am,
we
'll take a turn at algibbera.

I like that as much as I hate Latin."

Polly accepted the invitation,
and soon owned that Tom could beat her here.

This fact restored his equnimity;
but he did n't crow over her,
far from it;
for he helped her
with a paternal patience that made her eyes twinkle
with suppressed fun,
as he soberly explained and illustrated,
unconsciously imitating Dominie Deane,
till Polly found it difficult
to keep from laughing in his face.

"You may have another go at it any,
time you like,"
generously remarked Tom,
as he shied the algebra after the Latin Reader.

"I
'll come every evening,
then.

I
'd like to,
for I have n't studied a bit since I came.

You shall try and make me like algebra,
and I
'll try and make you like Latin,
will you?"
"Oh,
I
'd like it well enough,
if there was any one explain it
to me.

Old Deane puts us through double-quick,
and don't give a fellow time
to ask questions when we read."

"Ask your father;
he knows."

"Don't believe he does;
should n't dare
to bother him,
if he did."

"Why not?"
"He
'd pull my ears,
and call me a
'stupid,'
or tell me not
to worry him."

"I don't think he would.

He
's very kind
to me,
and I ask lots of questions."

"He likes you better than he does me."

"Now,
Tom! it
's wrong of you
to say so.

Of course he loves you ever so much more than he does me,"
cried Polly,
reprovingly.

"Why don't he show it then?"
muttered Tom,
with a half-wistful,
half-defiant glance toward the library door,
which stood ajar.

"You act so,
how can he?"
asked Polly,
after a pause,
in which she put Tom's question
to herself,
and could find no better reply than the one she gave him.

"Why don't he give me my velocipede?

He said,
if I did well at school
for a month,
I should have it;
and I
've been pegging away like fury
for most six weeks,
and he don't do a thing about it.

The girls get their duds,
because they tease.

I won't do that anyway;
but you don't catch me studying myself
to death,
and no pay
for it."

"It is too bad;
but you ought
to do it because it
's right,
and never mind being paid,"
began Polly,
trying
to be moral,
but secretly sympathizing heartily
with poor Tom.

"Don't you preach,
Polly.

If the governor took any notice of me,
and cared how I got on,
I would n't mind the presents so much;
but he don't care a hang,
and never even asked if I did well last declamation day,
when I
'd gone and learned
'The Battle of Lake Regillus,'
because he said he liked it."

"Oh,
Tom! Did you say that?

It
's splendid! Jim and I used
to say Horatius together,
and it was such fun.

Do speak your piece
to me,
I do so like
'Macaulay's Lays.'
"
"It
's dreadful long,"
began Tom;
but his face brightened,
for Polly's interest soothed his injured feelings,
and he was glad
to prove his elocutionary powers.

He began without much spirit;
but soon the martial ring of the lines fired him,
and before he knew it,
he was on his legs thundering away in grand style,
while Polly listened
with kindling face and absorbed attention.

Tom did declaim well,
for he quite forgot himself,
and delivered the stirring ballad
with an energy that made Polly flush and tingle
with admiration and delight,
and quite electrified a second listener,
who had heard all that went on,
and watched the little scene from behind his newspaper.

As Tom paused,
breathless,
and Polly clapped her hands enthusiastically,
the sound was loudly echoed from behind him.

Both whirled round,
and there was Mr. Shaw,
standing in the doorway,
applauding
with all his might.

Tom looked much abashed,
and said not a word;
Polly ran
to Mr. Shaw,
and danced before him,
saying,
eagerly,
"Was n't it splendid?

Did n't he do well?

May n't he have his velocipede now?"
"Capital,
Tom;
you
'll be an orator yet.

Learn another piece like that,
and I
'll come and hear you speak it.

Are you ready
for your velocipede,
hey?"
Polly was right;
and Tom owned that
"the governor"
was kind,
did like him and had n't entirely forgotten his promise.

The boy turned red
with pleasure,
and picked at the buttons on his jacket,
while listening
to this unexpected praise;
but when he spoke,
he looked straight up in his father's face,
while his own shone
with pleasure,
as he answered,
in one breath,
"Thankee,
sir.

I
'll do it,
sir.

Guess I am,
sir!"
"Very good;
then look out
for your new horse tomorrow,
sir."

And Mr. Shaw stroked the fuzzy red head
with a kind hand,
feeling a fatherly pleasure in the conviction that there was something in his boy after all.

Tom got his velocipede next day,
named it Black Auster,
in memory of the horse in
"The Battle of Lake Regillus,"
and came
to grief as soon as he began
to ride his new steed.

"Come out and see me go it,"
whispered Tom
to Polly,
after three days'
practice in the street,
for he had already learned
to ride in the rink.

Polly and Maud willingly went,
and watched his struggles,
with deep interest,
till he got an upset,
which nearly put an end
to his velocipeding forever.

"Hi,
there! Auster's coming!"
shouted Tom,
as came rattling down the long,
steep street outside the park.

They stepped aside,
and he whizzed by,
arms and legs going like mad,
with the general appearance of a runaway engine.

It would have been a triumphant descent,
if a big dog had not bounced suddenly through one of the openings,
and sent the whole concern helter-skelter into the gutter.

Polly laughed as she ran
to view the ruin.

for Tom lay flat on his back
with the velocipede atop him,
while the big dog barked wildly,
and his master scolded him
for his awkwardness.

But when she saw Tom's face,
Polly was frightened,
for the color had all gone out of it,
his eyes looked strange and dizzy,
and drops of blood began
to trickle from a great cut on his forehead.

The man saw it,
too,
and had him up in a minute;
but he could n't stand,
and stared about him in a dazed sort of way,
as he sat on the curbstone,
while Polly held her handkerchief
to his forehead,
and pathetically begged
to know if he was killed.

"Don't scare mother,
I
'm all right.

Got upset,
did n't I?"
he asked,
presently,
eyeing the prostrate velocipede
with more anxiety about its damages than his own.

"I knew you
'd hurt yourself
with that horrid thing just let it be,
and come home,
for your head bleeds dreadfully,
and everybody is looking at us,"
whispered Polly,
trying
to tie the little handkerchief over the ugly cut.

"Come on,
then.

Jove! how queer my head feels! Give us a boost,
please.

Stop howling,
Maud,
and come home.

You bring the machine,
and I
'll pay you,
Pat."

As he spoke,
Tom slowly picked himself and steadying himself by Polly's shoulder,
issued commands,
and the procession fell into line.

First,
the big dog,
barking at intervals;
then the good-natured Irishman,
trundling
"that divil of a whirligig,"
as he disrespectfully called the idolized velocipede;
then the wounded hero,
supported by the helpful Polly;
and Maud brought up the rear in tears,
bearing Tom's cap.

Unfortunately,
Mrs. Shaw was out driving
with grandma,
and Fanny was making calls;
so that there was no one but Polly
to stand by Tom,
for the parlor-maid turned faint at the sight of blood,
and the chamber-maid lost her wits in the flurry.

It was a bad cut,
and must be sewed up at once,
the doctor said,
as soon as he came.

"Somebody must hold his head;"
he added,
as he threaded his queer little needle.

"I
'll keep still,
but if anybody must hold me,
let Polly.

You ain't afraid,
are you?"
asked Tom,
with imploring look,
for he did n't like the idea of being sewed a bit.

Polly was just going
to shrink away,
saying,
"Oh I can't!"
when she remembered that Tom once called her a coward.

Here was a chance
to prove that she was n't;
besides,
poor Tom had no one else
to help him;
so she came up
to the sofa where he lay,
and nodded reassuringly,
as she put a soft little hand on either side of the damaged head.

"You are a trump,
Polly,"
whispered Tom.

Then he set his teeth,
clenched his hands,
lay quite still,
and bore it like a man.

It was all over in a minute or two,
and when he had had a glass of wine,
and was nicely settled on his bed,
he felt pretty comfortable,
in spite of the pain in his head;
and being ordered
to keep quiet,
he said,
"Thank you ever so much,
Polly,"
and watched her
with a grateful face as she crept away.

He had
to keep the house
for a week,
and laid about looking very interesting
with a great black patch on his forehead.

Every one
'petted him;'
for the doctor said,
that if the blow had been an inch nearer the temple,
it would have been fatal,
and the thought of losing him so suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at once.

His father asked him how he was a dozen times a day;
his mother talked continually of
"that dear boy's narrow escape";
and grandma cockered him up
with every delicacy she could invent;
and the girls waited on him like devoted slaves.

This new treatment had an excellent effect;
for when neglected Tom got over his first amazement at this change of base,
he blossomed out delightfully,
as sick people do sometimes,
and surprised his family by being unexpectedly patient,
grateful,
and amiable.

Nobody ever knew how much good it did him;
for boys seldom have confidences of this sort except
with their mothers,
and Mrs. Shaw had never found the key
to her son's heart.

But a little seed was sowed then that took root,
and though it grew very slowly,
it came
to something in the end.

Perhaps Polly helped it a little.

Evening was his hardest time,
for want of exercise made him as restless and nervous as it was possible
for a hearty lad
to be on such a short notice.

He could n't sleep so the girls amused him;
Fanny played and read aloud;
Polly sung,
and told stories;
and did the latter so well,
that it got
to be a regular thing
for her
to begin as soon as twilight came,
and Tom was settled in his favorite place on grandma's sofa.

"Fire away,
Polly,"
said the young sultan,
one evening,
as his little Scheherazade sat down in her low chair,
after stirring up the fire till the room was bright and cosy.

"I don't feel like stories to-night,
Tom.

I
've told all I know,
and can't make up any more,"
answered Polly,
leaning her head on her hand
with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before.

He watched her a minute,
and then asked,
curiously,
"What were you thinking about,
just now,
when you sat staring at the fire,
and getting soberer and soberer every minute?

"I was thinking about Jimmy."

"Would you mind telling about him?

You know,
you said you would some time;
but don't,
if you
'd rather not,"
said Tom,
lowering his rough voice respectfully.

"I like
to talk about him;
but there is n't much
to tell,"
began Polly,
grateful
for his interest.

"Sitting here
with you reminded me of the way I used
to sit
with him when he was sick.

We used
to have such happy times,
and it
's so pleasant
to think about them now."

"He was awfully good,
was n't he?"
"No,
he was n't;
but he tried
to be,
and mother says that is half the battle.

We used
to get tired of trying;
but we kept making resolutions,
and working hard
to keep
'em.

I don't think I got on much;
but Jimmy did,
and every one loved him."

"Did n't you ever squabble,
as we do?"
"Yes,
indeed,
sometimes;
but we could n't stay mad,
and always made it up again as soon as we could.

Jimmy used
to come round first,
and say,
'All serene,
Polly,'
so kind and jolly,
that I could n't help laughing and being friends right away."

"Did he not know a lot?"
"Yes,
I think he did,
for he liked
to study,
and wanted
to get on,
so he could help father.

People used
to call him a fine boy,
and I felt so proud
to hear it;
but they did n't know half how wise he was,
because he did n't show off a bit.

I suppose sisters always are grand of their brothers;
but I don't believe many girls had as much right
to be as I had."

"Most girls don't care two pins about their brothers;
so that shows you don't know much about it."

"Well,
they ought to,
if they don't;
and they would if the boys were as kind
to them as Jimmy was
to me."

"Why,
what did he do?"
"Loved me dearly,
and was n't ashamed
to show it,"
cried Polly,
with a sob in her voice,
that made her answer very eloquent.

"What made him die,
Polly?"
asked Tom,
soberly,
after little pause.

"He got hurt coasting,
last winter;
but he never told which boy did it,
and he only lived a week.

I helped take care of him;
and he was so patient,
I used
to wonder at him,
for he was in dreadful pain all time.

He gave me his books,
and his dog,
and his speckled hens,
and his big knife,
and said,
'Good-by,
Polly,'
and kissed me the last thing and then O Jimmy! Jimmy! If he only could come back!"
Poor Polly's eyes had been getting fuller and fuller,
lips trembling more and more,
as she went on;
when she came
to that
"good-by,"
she could n't get any further,
but covered up her face,
and cried as her heart would break.

Tom was full of sympathy,
but did n't know how
to show it;
so he sat shaking up the camphor bottle,
and trying
to think of something proper and comfortable
to say,
when Fanny came
to the rescue,
and cuddled Polly in her arms,
with soothing little pats and whispers and kisses,
till the tears stopped,
and Polly said,
she
"did n't mean to,
and would n't any more.

I
've been thinking about my dear boy all the evening,
for Tom reminds me of him,"
she added,
with a sigh.

"Me?

How can I,
when I ain't a bit like him?"
cried Tom,
amazed.

"But you are in some ways."

"Wish I was;
but I can't be,
for he was good,
you know."

"So are you,
when you choose.

Has n't he been good and patient,
and don't we all like
to pet him when he
's clever,
Fan?"
'
said Polly,
whose heart was still aching
for her brother,
and ready
for his sake
to find virtues even in tormenting Tom.

"Yes;
I don't know the boy lately;
but he
'll be as bad as ever when he
's well,"
returned Fanny,
who had n't much faith in sick-bed repentances.

"Much you know about it,"
growled Tom,
lying down again,
for he had sat bolt upright when Polly made the astounding declaration that he was like the well-beloved Jimmy.

That simple little history had made a deep impression on Tom,
and the tearful ending touched the tender spot that most boys hide so carefully.

It is very pleasant
to be loved and admired,
very sweet
to think we shall be missed and mourned when we die;
and Tom was seized
with a sudden desire
to imitate this boy,
who had n't done anything wonderful,
yet was so dear
to his sister,
that she cried
for him a whole year after he was dead;
so studious and clever,
the people called him
"a fine fellow";
and so anxious
to be good,
that he kept on trying,
till he was better even than Polly,
whom Tom privately considered a model of virtue,
as girls go.

"I just wish I had a sister like you,"
he broke out,
all of a sudden.

"And I just wish I had a brother like Jim,"
cried Fanny,
for she felt the reproach in Tom's words,
and knew she deserved it.

"I should n't think you
'd envy anybody,
for you
've got one another,"
said Polly,
with such a wistful look,
that it suddenly set Tom and Fanny
to wondering why they did n't have better times together,
and enjoy themselves,
as Polly and Jim did.

"Fan don't care
for anybody but herself,"
said Tom.

"Tom is such a bear,"
retorted Fanny.

"I would n't say such things,
for if anything should happen
to either of you,
the other one would feel so sorry.

Every cross word I ever said
to Jimmy comes back now,
and makes me wish I had n't."

Two great tears rolled down Polly's cheeks,
and were quietly wiped away;
but I think they watered that sweet sentiment,
called fraternal love,
which till now had been neglected in the hearts of this brother and sister.

They did n't say anything then,
or make any plans,
or confess any faults;
but when they parted
for the night,
Fanny gave the wounded head a gentle pat
(Tom never would have forgiven her if she had kissed him),
and said,
in a whisper,
"I hope you
'll have a good sleep,
Tommy,
dear."

And Tom nodded back at her,
with a hearty
"Same
to you,
Fan."

That was all;
but it meant a good deal,
for the voices were kind,
and the eyes met full of that affection which makes words of little consequence.

Polly saw it;
and though she did n't know that she had made the sunshine,
it shone back upon her so pleasantly,
that she fell happily asleep,
though her Jimmy was n't there
to say
"good-night."

CHAPTER V SCRAPES AFTER being unusually good,
children are apt
to turn short round and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho.

For a week after Tom's mishap,
the young folks were quite angelic,
so much so that grandma said she was afraid
"something was going
to happen
to them."

The dear old lady need n't have felt anxious,
for such excessive virtue does n't last long enough
to lead
to translation,
except
with little prigs in the goody story-books;
and no sooner was Tom on his legs again,
when the whole party went astray,
and much tribulation was the consequence.

It all began with
"Polly's stupidity,"
as Fan said afterward.

Just as Polly ran down
to meet Mr. Shaw one evening,
and was helping him off
with his coat,
the bell rang,
and a fine bouquet of hothouse flowers was left in Polly's hands,
for she never could learn city ways,
and opened the door herself.

"Hey! what's this?

My little Polly is beginning early,
after all,"
said Mr. Shaw,
laughing,
as he watched the girl's face dimple and flush,
as she smelt the lovely nosegay,
and glanced at a note half hidden in the heliotrope.

Now,
if Polly had n't been
"stupid,"
as Fan said,
she would have had her wits about her,
and let it pass;
but,
you see,
Polly was an honest little soul and it never occurred
to her that there was any need of concealment,
so she answered in her straightforward way,
"Oh,
they ain't
for me,
sir;
they are
for Fan;
from Mr. Frank,
I guess.

She
'll be so pleased."

"That puppy sends her things of this sort,
does he?"
And Mr. Shaw looked far from pleased as he pulled out the note,
and coolly opened it.

Polly had her doubts about Fan's approval of that
"sort of thing,"
but dared not say a word,
and stood thinking how she used
to show her father the funny valentines the boys sent her,
and how they laughed over them together.

But Mr. Shaw did not laugh when he had read the sentimental verses accompanying the bouquet,
and his face quite scared Polly,
as he asked,
angrily,
"How long has this nonsense been going on?"
"Indeed,
sir,
I don't know.

Fan does n't mean any harm.

I wish I had n't said anything!"
stammered Polly,
remembering the promise given
to Fanny the day of the concert.

She had forgotten all about it and had become accustomed
to see the
"big boys,"
as she called Mr. Frank and his friends,
with the girls on all occasions.

Now,
it suddenly occurred
to her that Mr. Shaw did n't like such amusements,
and had forbidden Fan
to indulge in them.

"Oh,
dear! how mad she will be.

Well,
I can't help it.

Girls should n't have secrets from their fathers,
then there would n't be any fuss,"
thought Polly,
as she watched Mr. Shaw twist up the pink note and poke it back among the flowers which he took from her,
saying,
shortly,
"Send Fanny
to me in the library."

"Now you
've done it,
you stupid thing!"
cried Fanny,
both angry and dismayed,
when Polly delivered the message.

"Why,
what else could I do?"
asked Polly,
much disturbed.

"Let him think the bouquet was
for you;
then there'd have been no trouble."

"But that would have been doing a lie,
which is most as bad as telling one."

"Don't be a goose.

You
've got me into a scrape,
and you ought
to help me out."

"I will if I can;
but I won't tell lies
for anybody!"
cried Polly,
getting excited.

"Nobody wants you
to just hold,
your tongue,
and let me manage."

"Then I
'd better not go down,"
began Polly,
when a stern voice from below called,
like Bluebeard,
"Are you coming down?"
"Yes,
sir,"
answered a meek voice;
and Fanny clutched Polly,
whispering,
"You must come;
I
'm frightened out of my wits when he speaks like that.

Stand by me,
Polly;
there
's a dear."

"I will,"
whispered
"sister Ann";
and down they went
with fluttering hearts.

Mr. Shaw stood on the rug,
looking rather grim;
the bouquet lay on the table,
and beside it a note,
directed to
"Frank Moore,
Esq.,"
in a very decided hand,
with a fierce-looking flourish after the
"Esq."

Pointing
to this impressive epistle,
Mr. Shaw said,
knitting his black eyebrows as he looked at Fanny,
"I
'm going
to put a stop
to this nonsense at once;
and if I see any more of it,
I
'll send you
to school in a Canadian convent."

This awful threat quite took Polly's breath away;
but Fanny had heard it before,
and having a temper of her own,
said,
pertly,
"I
'm sure I have n't done anything so very dreadful.

I can't help it if the boys send me philopena presents,
as they do
to the other girls."

"There was nothing about philopenas in the note.

But that
's not the question.

I forbid you
to have anything
to do
with this Moore.

He
's not a boy,
but a fast fellow,
and I won't have him about.

You knew this,
and yet disobeyed me."

"I hardly ever see him,"
began Fanny.

"Is that true?"
asked Mr. Shaw,
turning suddenly
to Polly.

"Oh,
please,
sir,
don't ask me.

I promised I would n't that is Fanny will tell you,"
cried Polly,
quite red
with distress at the predicament she was in.

"No matter about your promise;
tell me all you know of this absurd affair.

It will do Fanny more good than harm."

And Mr. Shaw sat down looking more amiable,
for Polly's dismay touched him.

"May I?"
she whispered
to Fanny.

"I don't care,"
answered Fan,
looking both angry and ashamed,
as she stood sullenly tying knots in her handkerchief.

So Polly told,
with much reluctance and much questioning,
all she knew of the walks,
the lunches,
the meetings,
and the notes.

It was n't much,
and evidently less serious than Mr. Shaw expected;
for,
as he listened,
his eyebrows smoothed themselves out,
and more than once his lips twitched as if he wanted
to laugh,
for after all,
it was rather comical
to see how the young people aped their elders,
playing the new-fashioned game,
quite unconscious of its real beauty,
power,
and sacredness.

"Oh,
please,
sir,
don't blame Fan much,
for she truly is n't half as silly as Trix and the other,
girls.

She would n't go sleigh-riding,
though Mr. Frank teased,
and she wanted
to ever so much.

She
's sorry,
I know,
and won't forget what you say any more,
if you
'll forgive her this once,"
cried Polly,
very earnestly,
when the foolish little story was told.

"I don't see how I can help it,
when you plead so well
for her.

Come here,
Fan,
and mind this one thing;
drop all this nonsense,
and attend
to your books,
or off you go;
and Canada is no joke in winter time,
let me tell you."

As he spoke,
Mr. Shaw stroked his sulky daughter's cheek,
hoping
to see some sign of regret;
but Fanny felt injured,
and would n't show that she was sorry,
so she only said,
pettishly,
"I suppose I can have my flowers,
now the fuss is over."

"They are going straight back where they came from,
with a line from me,
which will keep that puppy from ever sending you any more."

Ringing the bell,
Mr,
Shaw despatched the unfortunate posy,
and then turned
to Polly,
saying,
kindly but gravely,
"Set this silly child of mine a good example and do your best
for her,
won't you?"
"Me?

What can I do,
sir?"
asked Polly,
looking ready,
but quite ignorant how
to begin.

"Make her as like yourself as possible,
my dear;
nothing would please me better.

Now go,
and let us hear no more of this folly."

They went without a word,
and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the affair;
but poor Polly did,
for Fan scolded her,
till Polly thought seriously of packing up and going home next day.

I really have n't the heart
to relate the dreadful lectures she got,
the snubs she suffered,
or the cold shoulders turned upon her
for several days after this.

Polly's heart was full,
but she told no one,
and bore her trouble silently,
feeling her friend's ingratitude and injustice deeply.

Tom found out what the matter was,
and sided
with Polly,
which proceeding led
to scrape number two.

"Where
's Fan?"
asked the young gentleman,
strolling into his sister's room,
where Polly lay on the sofa,
trying
to forget her troubles in an interesting book.

"Down stairs,
seeing company."

"Why did n't you go,
too?"
"I don't like Trix,
and I don't know her fine New York friends."

"Don't want to,
neither,
why don't you say?"
"Not polite."

"Who cares?

I say,
Polly,
come and have some fun."

"I
'd rather read."

"That is n't polite."

Polly laughed,
and turned a page.

Tom whistled a minute,
then sighed deeply,
and put his hand
to his forehead,
which the black plaster still adorned.

"Does your head ache?"
asked Polly.

"Awfully."

"Better lie down,
then."

"Can't;
I
'm fidgety.

and want
to be
'amoosed'
as Pug says."

"Just wait till I finish my chapter,
and then I
'll come,"
said pitiful Polly.

"All right,"
returned the perjured boy,
who had discovered that a broken head was sometimes more useful than a whole one,
and exulting in his base stratagem,
he roved about the room,
till Fan's bureau arrested him.

It was covered
with all sorts of finery,
for she had dressed in a hurry,
and left everything topsy-turvy.

A well-conducted boy would have let things alone,
or a moral brother would have put things
to rights;
being neither,
Tom rummaged
to his hearts content,
till Fan's drawers looked as if some one had been making hay in them.

He tried the effect of ear-rings,
ribbons,
and collars;
wound up the watch,
though it was n't time;
burnt his inquisitive nose
with smelling-salts;
deluged his grimy handkerchief
with Fan's best cologne;
anointed his curly crop
with her hair-oil;
powdered his face
with her violet-powder;
and finished off by pinning on a bunch of false ringlets,
which Fanny tried,
to keep a profound secret.

The ravages committed by this bad boy are beyond the power of language
to describe,
as he revelled in the interesting drawers,
boxes,
and cases,
which held his sister's treasures.

When the curls had been put on,
with much pricking of fingers,
and a blue ribbon added,
.

la Fan,
he surveyed himself
with satisfaction,
and considered the effect so fine,
that he was inspired
to try a still greater metamorphosis.

The dress Fan had taken off lay on a chair,
and into it got Tom,
chuckling
with suppressed laughter,
for Polly was absorbed,
and the bed-curtains hid his iniquity.

Fan's best velvet jacket and hat,
ermine muff,
and a sofa-pillow
for pannier,
finished off the costume,
and tripping along
with elbows out,
Tom appeared before the amazed Polly just as the chapter ended.

She enjoyed the joke so heartily,
that Tom forgot consequences,
and proposed going down into the parlor
to surprise,
the girls.

"Goodness,
no! Fanny never would forgive us if you showed her curls and things
to those people.

There are gentlemen among them,
and it would n't be proper,"
said Polly,
alarmed at the idea.

"All the more fun.

Fan has n't treated you well,
and it will serve her right if you introduce me as your dear friend,
Miss Shaw.

Come on,
it will be a jolly lark."

"I would n't
for the world;
it would be so mean.

Take
'em off,
Tom,
and I
'll play anything else you like."

"I ain't going
to dress up
for nothing;
I look so lovely,
someone must admire me.

Take me down,
Polly,
and see if they don't call me
'a sweet creature.'
"
Tom looked so unutterably ridiculous as he tossed his curls and pranced,
that Polly went off into another gale of merriment;
but even while she laughed,
she resolved not
to let him mortify his sister.

"Now,
then,
get out of the way if you won't come;
I
'm going down,"
said Tom.

"No,
you
're not."

"How will you help it,
Miss Prim?"
"So."

And Polly locked the door,
put the key in her pocket,
and nodded at him defiantly.

Tom was a pepper-pot as
to temper,
and anything like opposition always had a bad effect.

Forgetting his costume,
he strode up
to Polly,
saying,
with a threatening wag of the,
head,
"None of that.

I won't stand it."

"Promise not
to plague Fan,
and I
'll let you out."

"Won't promise anything.

Give me that key,
or I
'll make you."

"Now,
Tom,
don't be savage.

I only want
to keep you out of a scrape,
for Fan will be raging if you go.

Take off her things,
and I
'll give up."

Tom vouchsafed no reply,
but marched
to the other door,
which was fast,
as Polly knew,
looked out of the three-story window,
and finding no escape possible,
came back
with a wrathful face.

"Will you give me that key?"
"No,
I won't,"
said Polly,
valiantly.

"I
'm stronger than you are;
so you
'd better hand over."

"I know you are;
but it
's cowardly
for a great boy like you
to rob a girl."

"I don't want
to hurt you;
but,
by George! I won't stand this!"
Tom paused as Polly spoke,
evidently ashamed of himself;
but his temper was up,
and he would n't give in.

If Polly had cried a little just here,
he would have yielded;
unfortunately she giggled,
for Tom's fierce attitude was such a funny contrast
to his dress that she could n't help it.

That settled the matter.

No girl that ever lived should giggle at him,
much less lock him up like a small child.

Without a word,
he made a grab at Polly's arm,
for the hand holding the key was still in her,
pocket.

With her other hand she clutched her frock,
and
for a minute held on stoutly.

But Tom's strong fingers were irresistible;
rip went the pocket,
out came the hand,
and
with a cry of pain from Polly,
the key fell on the floor.

"It
's your own fault if you
're hurt.

I did n't mean to,"
muttered Tom,
as he hastily departed,
leaving Polly
to groan over her sprained wrist.

He went down,
but not into the parlor,
for somehow the joke seemed
to have lost its relish;
so he made the girls in the kitchen laugh,
and then crept up the back way,
hoping
to make it all right
with Polly.

But she had gone
to grandma's room,
for,
though the old lady was out,
it seemed a refuge.

He had just time
to get things in order,
when Fanny came up,
crosser than ever;
for Trix had been telling her of all sorts of fun in which she might have had a share,
if Polly had held her tongue.

"Where is she?"
asked Fan,
wishing
to vent her vexation on her friend.

"Moping in her room,
I suppose,"
replied Tom,
who was discovered reading studiously.

Now,
while this had been happening,
Maud had been getting into hot water also;
for when her maid left her,
to see a friend below,
Miss Maud paraded into Polly's room,
and solaced herself
with mischief.

In an evil hour Polly had let her play boat in her big trunk,
which stood empty.

Since then Polly had stored some of her most private treasures in the upper tray,
so that she might feel sure they were safe from all eyes.

She had forgotten
to lock the trunk,
and when Maud raised the lid
to begin her voyage,
several objects of interest met her eyes.

She was deep in her researches when Fan came in and looked over her shoulder,
feeling too cross
with Polly
to chide Maud.

As Polly had no money
for presents,
she had exerted her ingenuity
to devise all sorts of gifts,
hoping by quantity
to atone
for any shortcomings in quality.

Some of her attempts were successful,
others were failures;
but she kept them all,
fine or funny,
knowing the children at home would enjoy anything new.

Some of Maud's cast-off toys had been neatly mended
for Kitty;
some of Fan's old ribbons and laces were converted into dolls'
finery;
and Tom's little figures,
whittled out of wood in idle minutes,
were laid away
to show Will what could be done
with a knife.

"What rubbish!"
said Fanny.

"Queer girl,
is n't she?"
added Tom,
who had followed
to see what was going on.

"Don't you laugh at Polly's things.

She makes nicer dolls than you,
Fan;
and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom,"
cried Maud.

"How do you know?

I never saw her draw,"
said Tom.

"Here
's a book
with lots of pictures in it.

I can't wead the witing;
but the pictures are so funny."

Eager
to display her friend's accomplishments,
Maud pulled out a fat little book,
marked
"Polly's Journal,"
and spread it in her lap.

"Only the pictures;
no harm in taking a look at
'em,"
said Tom.

"Just one peep,"
answered Fanny;
and the next minute both were laughing at a droll sketch of Tom in the gutter,
with the big dog howling over him,
and the velocipede running away.

Very rough and faulty,
but so funny,
that it was evident Polly's sense of humor was strong.

A few pages farther back came Fanny and Mr. Frank,
caricatured;
then grandma,
carefully done;
Tom reciting his battle-piece;
Mr. Shaw and Polly in the park;
Maud being borne away by Katy;
and all the school-girls turned into ridicule
with an unsparing hand.

"Sly little puss,
to make fun of us behind our backs,"
said Fan,
rather nettled by Polly's quiet retaliation
for many slights from herself and friends.

"She does draw well,"
said Tom,
looking critically at the sketch of a boy
with a pleasant face,
round whom Polly had drawn rays like the sun,
and under which was written,
"My dear Jimmy."

"You would n't admire her,
if you knew what she wrote here about you,"
said Fanny,
whose eyes had strayed
to the written page opposite,
and lingered there long enough
to read something that excited her curiosity.

"What is it?"
asked Tom,
forgetting his honorable resolves
for a minute.

"She says,
'I try
to like Tom,
and when he is pleasant we do very well;
but he don't stay so long.

He gets cross and rough,
and disrespectful
to his father and mother,
and plagues us girls,
and is so horrid I almost hate him.

It
's very wrong,
but I can't help it.'

How do you like that?"
asked Fanny.

"Go ahead,
and see how she comes down on you,
ma'am,"
retorted Tom,
who had read on a bit.

"Does she?"
And Fanny continued,
rapidly:

"As
for Fan,
I don't think we can be friends any more;
for she told her father a lie,
and won't forgive me
for not doing so too.

I used
to think her a very fine girl;
but I don't now.

If she would be as she was when I first knew her,
I should love her just the same;
but she is n't kind
to me;
and though she is always talking about politeness,
I don't think it is polite
to treat company as she does me.

She thinks I am odd and countrified,
and I dare say I am;
but I should n't laugh at a girl's clothes because she was poor,
or keep her out of the way because she did n't do just as other girls do here.

I see her make fun of me,
and I can't feel as I did;
and I
'd go home,
only it would seem ungrateful
to Mr. Shaw and grandma,
and I do love them dearly."

"I say,
Fan,
you
've got it now.

Shut the book and come away,"
cried Tom,
enjoying this broadside immensely,
but feeling guilty,
as well he might.

"Just one bit more,"
whispered Fanny,
turning on a page or two,
and stopping at a leaf that was blurred here and there as if tears had dropped on it.

"Sunday morning,
early.

Nobody is up
to spoil my quiet time,
and I must.

write my journal,
for I
've been so bad lately,
I could n't bear
to do it.

I
'm glad my visit is most done,
for things worry me here,
and there is n't any one
to help me get right when I get wrong.

I used
to envy Fanny;
but I don't now,
for her father and mother don't take care of her as mine do of me.

She is afraid of her father,
and makes her mother do as she likes.

I
'm glad I came though,
for I see money don't give people everything;
but I
'd like a little all the same,
for it is so comfortable
to buy nice things.

I read over my journal just now,
and I
'm afraid it
's not a good one;
for I have said all sorts of things about the people here,
and it is n't kind.

I should tear it out,
only I promised
to keep my diary,
and I want
to talk over things that puzzle me
with mother.

I see now that it is my fault a good deal;
for I have n't been half as patient,
and pleasant as I ought
to be.

I will truly try
for the rest of the time,
and be as good and grateful as I can;
for I want them
to like me,
though I
'm only
'an old-fashioned country girl.'
"
That last sentence made Fanny shut the book,
with a face full of self-reproach;
for she had said those words herself,
in a fit of petulance,
and Polly had made no answer,
though her eyes filled and her cheeks burned.

Fan opened her lips
to say something,
but not a sound followed,
for there stood Polly looking at them
with an expression they had never seen before.

"What are you doing
with my things?"
she demanded,
in a low tone,
while her eyes kindled and her color changed.

"Maud showed us a book she found,
and we were just looking at the pictures,"
began Fanny,
dropping it as if it burnt her fingers.

"And reading my journal,
and laughing at my presents,
and then putting the blame on Maud.

It
's the meanest thing I ever saw;
and I
'll never forgive you as long as I live!"
Polly said,
this all in one indignant breath,
and then as if afraid of saying too much,
ran out of the room
with such a look of mingled contempt,
grief,
and anger,
that the three culprits stood dumb
with shame.

Tom had n't even a whistle at his command;
Maud was so scared at gentle Polly's outbreak,
that she sat as still as a mouse;
while Fanny,
conscience stricken,
laid back the poor little presents
with a respectful hand,
for somehow the thought of Polly's poverty came over her as it never had done before;
and these odds and ends,
so carefully treasured up
for those at home,
touched Fanny,
and grew beautiful in her eyes.

As she laid by the little book,
the confessions in it reproached her more sharply that any words Polly could have spoken;
for she had laughed at her friend,
had slighted her sometimes,
and been unforgiving
for an innocent offence.

That last page,
where Polly took the blame on herself,
and promised to
"truly try"
to be more kind and patient,
went
to Fanny's heart,
melting all the coldness away,
and she could only lay her head on the trunk,
sobbing,
"It was n't Polly's fault;
it was all mine."

Tom,
still red
with shame at being caught in such a scrape,
left Fanny
to her tears,
and went manfully away
to find the injured Polly,
and confess his manifold transgressions.

But Polly could n't be found.

He searched high and low in every room,
yet no sign of the girt appeared,
and Tom began
to get anxious.

"She can't have run away home,
can she?"
he said
to himself,
as he paused before the hat-tree.

There was the little round hat,
and Tom gave it a remorseful smooth,
remembering how many times he had tweaked it half off,
or poked it over poor Polly's eyes.

"Maybe she
's gone down
to the office,
to tell pa.

'T is n't a bit like her,
though.

Anyway,
I
'll take a look round the corner."

Eager
to get his boots,
Tom pulled open the door of a dark closet under the stairs,
and nearly tumbled over backward
with surprise;
for there,
on the floor,
with her head pillowed on a pair of rubbers,
lay Polly in an attitude of despair.

This mournful spectacle sent Tom's penitent speech straight out of his head,
and
with an astonished
"Hullo!"
he stood and stared in impressive silence.

Polly was n't crying,
and lay so still,
that Tom began
to think she might be in a fit or a faint,
and bent anxiously down
to inspect the pathetic bunch.

A glimpse of wet eyelashes,
a round cheek redder than usual,
and lips parted by quick,
breathing,
relieved his mind upon that point;
so,
taking courage,
he sat down on the boot-jack,
and begged pardon like a man.

Now,
Polly was very angry,
and I think she had a right
to be;
but she was not resentful,
and after the first flash was over,
she soon began
to feel better about it.

It was n't easy
to forgive;
but,
as she listened
to Tom's honest voice,
getting gruff
with remorse now and then,
she could n't harden her heart against him,
or refuse
to make up when he so frankly owned that it
"was confounded mean
to read her book that way."

She liked his coming and begging pardon at once;
it was a handsome thing
to do;
she appreciated it,
and forgave him in her heart some time before she did
with her lips;
for,
to tell the truth,
Polly had a spice of girlish malice,
and rather liked
to see domineering Tom eat humble-pie,
just enough
to do him good,
you know.

She felt that atonement was proper,
and considered it no more than just that Fan should drench a handkerchief or two
with repentant tears,
and that Tom should sit on a very uncomfortable seat and call himself hard names
for five or ten minutes before she relented.

"Come,
now,
do say a word
to a fellow.

I
'm getting the worst of it,
anyway;
for there
's Fan,
crying her eyes out upstairs,
and here are you stowed away in a dark closet as dumb as a fish,
and nobody but me
to bring you both round.

I
'd have cut over
to the Smythes and got ma home
to fix things,
only it looked like backing out of the scrape;
so I did n't,"
said Tom,
as a last appeal.

Polly was glad
to hear that Fan was crying.

It would do her good;
but she could n't help softening
to Tom,
who did seem in a predicament between two weeping damsels.

A little smile began
to dimple the cheek that was n't hidden,
and then a hand came slowly out from under the curly head,
and was stretched toward him silently.

Tom was just going
to give it a hearty shake,
when he saw a red mark on the wrist,
and knew what made it.

His face changed,
and he took the chubby hand so gently,
that Polly peeped
to see what it meant.

"Will you forgive that,
too?"
he asked,
in a whisper,
stroking the red wrist.

"Yes,
it don't hurt much now."

And Polly drew her hand away,
sorry he had seen it.

"I was a beast,
that
's what I was!"
said Tom,
in a tone of great disgust.

And just at that awkward minute down tumbled his father's old beaver over his head and face,
putting a comical quencher on his self-reproaches.

Of course,
neither could help laughing at that;
and when he emerged,
Polly was sitting up,
looking as much better
for her shower as he did
for his momentary eclipse.

"Fan feels dreadfully.

Will you kiss and be friends,
if I trot her down?"
asked Tom,
remembering his fellow-sinner.

"I
'll go
to her."

And Polly whisked out of the closet as suddenly as she had whisked in,
leaving Tom sitting on the boot-jack,
with a radiant countenance.

How the girls made it up no one ever knew.

But after much talking and crying,
kissing and laughing,
the breach was healed,
and peace declared.

A slight haze still lingered in the air after the storm,
for Fanny was very humble and tender that evening;
Tom a trifle pensive,
but distressingly polite,
and Polly magnanimously friendly
to every one;
for generous natures like
to forgive,
and Polly enjoyed the petting after the insult,
like a very human girl.

As she was brushing her hair at bedtime there came a tap on her door and,
opening it,
she beheld nothing but a tall black bottle,
with a strip of red flannel tied round it like a cravat,
and a cocked-hat note on the cork.

Inside were these lines,
written in a sprawling hand
with very black ink:

DEAR POLLY,
Opydilldock is first-rate
for sprains.

You put a lot on the flannel and do up your wrist,
and I guess it will be all right in the morning.

Will you come a sleigh-ride tomorrow?

I
'm awful sorry I hurt you.

TOM CHAPTER VI GRANDMA WHERE
'S Polly?"
asked Fan one snowy afternoon,
as she came into the dining-room where Tom was reposing on the sofa
with his boots in the air,
absorbed in one of those delightful books in which boys are cast away on desert islands,
where every known fruit,
vegetable and flower is in its prime all the year round;
or,
lost in boundless forests,
where the young heroes have thrilling adventures,
kill impossible beasts,
and,
when the author's invention gives out,
suddenly find their way home,
laden
with tiger skins,
tame buffaloes and other pleasing trophies of their prowess.

"Dun no,"
was Tom's brief reply,
for he was just escaping from an alligator of the largest size.

"Do put down that stupid book,
and let
's do something,"
said Fanny,
after a listless stroll round the room.

"Hi,
they
've got him!"
was the only answer vouchsafed by the absorbed reader.

"Where
's Polly?"
asked Maud,
joining the party
with her hands full of paper dolls all suffering
for ball-dresses.

"Do get along,
and don't bother me,"
cried Tom exasperated at the interruption.

"Then tell us where she is.

I
'm sure you know,
for she was down here a little while ago,"
said Fanny.

"Up in grandma's room,
maybe."

"Provoking thing! you knew it all the time,
and did n't tell,
just
to plague us,"
scolded Maud.

But Tom was now under water stabbing his alligator,
and took no notice of the indignant departure of the young ladies.

"Polly
's always poking up in grandma's room.

I don't see what fun there is in it,"
said Fanny as they went up stairs.

"Polly
's a verwy queer girl,
and gwandma pets her a gweat deal more than she does me,"
observed Maud,
with an injured air.

"Let
's peek and see what they are doing,"
whispered Fan,
pausing at the half-open door.

Grandma was sitting before a quaint old cabinet,
the doors of which stood wide open,
showing glimpses of the faded relics treasured there.

On a stool,
at the old lady's feet,
sat Polly,
looking up
with intent face and eager eyes,
quite absorbed in the history of a high-heeled brocade shoe which lay in her lap.

"Well,
my dear,"
grandma was saying,
"she had it on the very day that Uncle Joe came in as she sat at work,
and said,
'Dolly,
we must be married at once.'

'Very well,
Joe,'
says Aunt Dolly,
and down she went
to the parlor,
where the minister was waiting,
never stopping
to change the dimity dress she wore,
and was actually married
with her scissors and pin-ball at her side,
and her thimble on.

That was in war times,
1812,
my dear,
and Uncle Joe was in the army,
so he had
to go,
and he took that very little pin-ball
with him.

Here it is
with the mark of a bullet through it,
for he always said his Dolly's cushion saved his life."

"How interesting that is!"
cried Polly,
as she examined the faded cushion
with the hole in it.

"Why,
grandma,
you never told me that story,"
said Fanny,
hurrying in,
finding the prospect was a pleasant one
for a stormy afternoon.

"You never asked me
to tell you anything,
my dear,
so I kept my old stories
to myself,"
answered grandma,
quietly.

"Tell some now,
please.

May we stay and see the funny things?"
said Fan and Maud,
eyeing the open cabinet
with interest.

"If Polly likes;
she is my company,
and I am trying
to entertain her,
for I love
to have her come,"
said grandma,
with her old-time politeness.

"Oh,
yes! do let them stay and hear the stories.

I
've often told them what good times we have up here,
and teased them
to come,
but they think it
's too quiet.

Now,
sit down,
girls,
and let grandma go on.

You see I pick out something in the cabinet that looks interesting,
and then she tells me about it,"
said Polly,
eager
to include the girls in her pleasures,
and glad
to get them interested in grandma's reminiscences,
for Polly knew how happy it made the lonely old lady
to live over her past,
and
to have the children round her.

"Here are three drawers that have not been opened yet;
each take one,
and choose something from it
for me
to tell about,"
said Madam,
quite excited at the unusual interest in her treasures.

So the girls each opened a drawer and turned over the contents till they found something they wanted
to know about.

Maud was ready first,
and holding up an oddly shaped linen bag,
with a big blue F embroidered on it,
demanded her story.

Grandma smiled as she smoothed the old thing tenderly,
and began her story
with evident pleasure.

"My sister Nelly and I went
to visit an aunt of ours,
when we were little girls,
but we did n't have a very good time,
for she was extremely strict.

One afternoon,
when she had gone out
to tea,
and old Debby,
the maid,
was asleep in her room,
we sat on the door-step,
feeling homesick,
and ready
for any thing
to amuse us.

"
'What shall we do?'
said Nelly.

"Just as she spoke,
a ripe plum dropped bounce on the grass before us,
as if answering her question.

It was all the plum's fault,
for if it had n't fallen at that minute,
I never should have had the thought which popped into my mischievous mind.

"
'Let
's have as many as we want,
and plague Aunt Betsey,
to pay her
for being so cross,'
I said,
giving Nelly half the great purple plum.

"
'It would be dreadful naughty,'
began Nelly,
'but I guess we will,'
she added,
as the sweet mouthful slipped down her throat.

"
'Debby
's asleep.

Come on,
then,
and help me shake,'
I said,
getting up,
eager
for the fun.

"We shook and shook till we got red in the face,
but not one dropped,
for the tree was large,
and our little arms were not strong enough
to stir the boughs.

Then we threw stones,
but only one green and one half-ripe one came down,
and my last stone broke the shed window,
so there was an end of that.

"
'It
's as provoking as Aunt Betsey herself,'
said Nelly,
as we sat down,
out of breath.

"
'I wish the wind would come and blow
'em down
for us,'
panted I,
staring up at the plums
with longing eyes.

"
'If wishing would do any good,
I should wish
'em in my lap at once,'
added Nelly.

"
'You might as well wish
'em in your mouth and done
with it,
if you are too lazy
to pick
'em up.

If the ladder was n't too heavy we could try that,'
said I,
determined
to have them.

"
'You know we can't stir it,
so what is the use of talking about it?

You proposed getting the plums,
now let
's see you do it,'
answered Nelly,
rather crossly,
for she had bitten the green plum,
and it puckered her mouth.

"
'Wait a minute,
and you will see me do it,'
cried I,
as a new thought came into my naughty head.

"
'What are you taking your shoes and socks off for?

You can't climb the tree,
Fan.'
"
'Don't ask questions,
but be ready
to pick
'em up when they fall,
Miss Lazybones.'
"With this mysterious speech I pattered into the house bare-footed and full of my plan.

Up stairs I went
to a window opening on the shed roof.

Out I got,
and creeping carefully along till I came near the tree,
I stood up,
and suddenly crowed like the little rooster.

Nelly looked up,
and stared,
and laughed,
and clapped her hands when she saw what I was going
to do.

"
'I
'm afraid you
'll slip and get hurt.'
"
'Don't care if I do;
I
'll have those plums if I break my neck doing it,'
and half sliding,
half walking I went down the sloping roof,
till the boughs of the tree were within my reach.

"Hurrah!"
cried Nelly,
dancing down below,
as my first shake sent a dozen plums rattling round her.

"'Hurrah!"
cried I,
letting go one branch and trying
to reach another.

But as I did so my foot slipped,
I tried
to catch something
to hold by,
but found nothing,
and
with a cry,
down I fell,
like a very big plum on the grass below.

"Fortunately the shed was low,
the grass was thick and the tree broke my fall,
but I got a bad bump and a terrible shaking.

Nelly thought I was killed,
and began
to cry
with her mouth full.

But I picked myself up in a minute,
for I was used
to such tumbles;
and did n't mind the pain half as much as the loss of the pluMs. "

'Hush! Debby will hear and spoil all the fun.

I said I
'd get
'em and I have.

See what lots have come down
with me.'
"So there had,
for my fall shook the tree almost as much as it did me,
and the green and purple fruit lay all about us.

"By the time the bump on my forehead had swelled as big as a nut,
our aprons were half full,
and we sat down
to enjoy ourselves.

But we did n't.

O dear,
no!
for many of the plums were not ripe,
some were hurt by the birds,
some crushed in falling,
and many as hard as stones.

Nelly got stung by a wasp,
my head began
to ache,
and we sat looking at one another rather dismally,
when Nelly had a bright idea.

"
'Let
's cook
'em,
then they
'll be good,
and we can put some away in our little pails
for to-morrow.'
"
'That will be splendid! There
's a fire in the kitchen,
Debby always leaves the kettle on,
and we can use her saucepan,
and I know where the sugar is,
and we
'll have a grand time.'
"In we went,
and fell
to work very quietly.

It was a large,
open fire-place,
with the coals nicely covered up,
and the big kettle simmering on the hook.

We raked open the fire,
put on the saucepan,
and in it the best of our plums,
with water enough
to spoil them.

But we did n't know that,
and felt very important as we sat waiting
for it
to boil,
each armed
with a big spoon,
while the sugar box stood between us ready
to be used.

"How slow they were,
to be sure! I never knew such obstinate things,
for they would n't soften,
though they danced about in the boiling water,
and bobbed against the cover as if they were doing their best.

"The sun began
to get low,
we were afraid Debby would come down,
and still those dreadful plums would n't look like sauce.

At last they began
to burst,
the water got a lovely purple,
we put lots of sugar in,
and kept tasting till our aprons and faces were red,
and our lips burnt
with the hot spoons.

"'There
's too much juice,'
said Nelly,
shaking her head wisely.

'It ought
to be thick and nice like mamma's.'
"'I
'll pour off some of the juice,
and we can drink it,'
said I,
feeling that I
'd made a mistake in my cooking.

"So Nelly got a bowl,
and I got a towel and lifted the big saucepan carefully off.

It was heavy and hot,
and I was a little afraid of it,
but did n't like
to say so.

Just as I began
to pour,
Debby suddenly called from the top of the stairs,
'Children,
what under the sun are you doing?'
"It startled us both.

Nelly dropped the bowl and ran.

I dropped the saucepan and did n't run,
for a part of the hot juice splashed upon my bare feet,
and ankles,
and made me scream
with dreadful pain.

"Down rushed Debby
to find me dancing about the kitchen
with a great bump on my forehead,
a big spoon in my hand,
and a pair of bright purple feet.

The plums were lying all over the hearth,
the saucepan in the middle of the room,
the basin was broken,
and the sugar swimming about as if the bowl had turned itself over trying
to sweeten our mess
for us.

"Debby was very good
to me,
for she never stopped
to scold,
but laid me down on the old sofa,
and bound up my poor little feet
with oil and cotton wool.

Nelly,
seeing me lie white and weak,
thought I was dying,
and went over
to the neighbor's
for Aunt Betsey,
and burst in upon the old ladies sitting primly at,
their tea,
crying,
distractedly,
"
'Oh,
Aunt Betsey,
come quick!
for the saucepan fell off the shed,
and Fan's feet are all boiled purple!'
"Nobody laughed at this funny message,
and Aunt Betsey ran all the way home
with a muffin in her hand and her ball in her pocket,
though the knitting was left behind.

"I suffered a great deal,
but I was n't sorry afterward,
for I learned
to love Aunt Betsey,
who nursed me tenderly,
and seemed
to forget her strict ways in her anxiety
for me.

"This bag was made
for my special comfort,
and hung on the sofa where I lay all those weary days.

Aunt kept it full of pretty patchwork or,
what I liked better,
ginger-nuts,
and peppermint drops,
to amuse me,
though she did n't approve of cosseting children up,
any more than I do now."

"I like that vewy well,
and I wish I could have been there,"
was Maud's condescending remark,
as she put back the little bag,
after a careful peep inside,
as if she hoped
to find an ancient ginger-nut,
or a well-preserved peppermint drop still lingering in some corner.

"We had plums enough that autumn,
but did n't seem
to care much about them,
after all,
for our prank became a household joke,
and,
for years,
we never saw the fruit,
but Nelly would look at me
with a funny face,
and whisper,
'Purple stockings,
Fan!'
"
"Thank you,
ma'am,"
said Polly.

"Now,
Fan,
your turn next."

"Well,
I
've a bundle of old letters,
and I
'd like
to know if there is any story about them,"
answered Fanny,
hoping some romance might be forthcoming.

Grandma turned over the little packet tied up
with a faded pink ribbon;
a dozen yellow notes written on rough,
thick paper,
with red wafers still adhering
to the folds,
showing plainly that they were written before the day of initial note-paper and self-sealing envelopes.

"They are not love-letters,
deary,
but notes from my mates after I left Miss Cotton's boarding-school.

I don't think there is any story about them,"
and grandma turned them over
with spectacles before the dim eyes,
so young and bright when they first read the very same notes.

Fanny was about
to say,
"I
'll choose again,"
when grandma began
to laugh so heartily that the girls felt sure she had caught some merry old memory which would amuse them.

"Bless my heart,
I have n't thought of that frolic this forty years.

Poor,
dear,
giddy Sally Pomroy,
and she
's a great-grandmother now!"
cried the old lady,
after reading one of the notes,
and clearing the mist off her glasses.

"Now,
please tell about her;
I know it
's something funny
to make you laugh so,"
said Polly and Fan together.

"Well,
it was droll,
and I
'm glad I remembered it
for it
's just the story
to tell you young things.

"It was years ago,"
began grandma,
briskly,
"and teachers were very much stricter than they are now.

The girls at Miss Cotton's were not allowed lights in their rooms after nine o'clock,
never went out alone,
and were expected
to behave like models of propriety from morning till night.

"As you may imagine,
ten young girls,
full of spirits and fun,
found these rules hard
to keep,
and made up
for good behavior in public by all sorts of frolics in private.

"Miss Cotton and her brother sat in the back parlor after school was over,
and the young ladies were sent
to bed.

Mr. John was very deaf,
and Miss Priscilla very near-sighted,
two convenient afflictions
for the girls on some occasions,
but once they proved quite the reverse,
as you shall hear.

"We had been very prim
for a week,
and our bottled up spirits could no longer be contained;
so we planed a revel after our own hearts,
and set our wits
to work
to execute it.

"The first obstacle was surmounted in this way.

As none of us could get out alone,
we resolved
to lower Sally from the window,
for she was light and small,
and very smart.

"With our combined pocket-money she was
to buy nuts and candy,
cake and fruit,
pie,
and a candle,
so that we might have a light,
after Betsey took ours away as usual.

"We were
to darken the window of the inner chamber,
set a watch in the little entry,
light up,
and then
for a good time.

"At eight o'clock on the appointed evening,
several of us professed great weariness,
and went
to our room,
leaving the rest sewing virtuously
with Miss Cotton,
who read Hannah More's Sacred Dramas aloud,
in a way that fitted the listeners
for bed as well as a dose of opium would have done.

"I am sorry
to say I was one of the ringleaders;
and as soon as we got up stairs,
produced the rope provided
for the purpose,
and invited Sally
to be lowered.

It was an old-fashioned house,
sloping down behind,
and the closet window chosen by us was not many feet from the ground.

"It was a summer evening,
so that at eight o'clock it was still light;
but we were not afraid of being seen,
for the street was a lonely one,
and our only neighbors two old ladies,
who put down their curtains at sunset,
and never looked out till morning.

"Sally had been bribed by promises of as many
'goodies'
as she could eat,
and being a regular madcap,
she was ready
for anything.

"Tying the rope round her waist she crept out,
and we let her safely down,
sent a big basket after her,
and saw her slip round the comer in my big sun bonnet and another girl's shawl,
so that she should not be recognized.

"Then we put our night-gowns over our dresses,
and were laid peacefully in bed when Betsey came up,
earlier than usual;
for it was evident that Miss Cotton felt a little suspicious at our sudden weariness.

"For half an hour we lay laughing and whispering,
as we waited
for the signal from Sally.

At last we heard a cricket chirp shrilly under the window,
and flying up,
saw a little figure below in the twilight.

"
'O,
quick! quick!'
cried Sally,
panting
with haste.

'Draw up the basket and then get me in,
for I saw Mr. Cotton in the market,
and ran all the way home,
so that I might get in before he came.'
"Up came the heavy basket,
bumping and scraping on the way,
and smelling,
O,
so nice! Down went the rope,
and
with a long pull,
a strong pull,
and a pull all together,
we hoisted poor Sally half-way up
to the window,
when,
sad
to tell,
the rope slipped and down she fell,
only being saved from broken bones by the hay-cock under the window.

"'He
's coming! he
's coming! O pull me up,
for mercy sake!'
cried Sally,
scrambling
to her feet unhurt,
but a good deal shaken.

"We saw a dark figure approaching,
and dragged her in
with more bumping and scraping,
and embraced her
with rapture,
for we had just escaped being detected by Mr. John,
whose eyes were as sharp as his ears were dull.

"We heard the front-door shut,
then a murmur of voices,
and then Betsey's heavy step coming up stairs.

"Under the bed went the basket,
and into the beds went the conspirators,
and nothing could have been more decorous than the appearance of the room when Betsey popped her head in.

"
'Master's an old fidget
to send me travelling up again,
just because he fancied he saw something amiss at the window.

Nothing but a curtain flapping,
or a shadder,
for the poor dears is sleeping like lambs.'
"We heard her say this
to herself,
and a general titter agitated the white coverlets as she departed.

"Sally was in high feather at the success of her exploit,
and danced about like an elf,
as she put her night-gown on over her frock,
braided her hair in funny little tails all over her head,
and fastened the great red pin-cushion on her bosom
for a breastpin in honor of the feast.

"The other girls went
to their rooms as agreed upon,
and all was soon dark and still up stairs,
while Miss Cotton began
to enjoy herself below,
as she always did when
'her young charges'
were safely disposed of.

"Then ghosts began
to walk,
and the mice scuttled back
to their holes in alarm,
for white figures glided from room
to room,
till all were assembled in the little chamber.

"The watch was set at the entry door,
the signal agreed upon,
the candle lighted,
and the feast spread forth upon a newspaper on the bed,
with the coverlet arranged so that it could be whisked over the refreshments at a moment's notice.

"How good everything was,
to be sure! I don't think I
've eaten any pies since that had such a delicious flavor as those broken ones,
eaten hastily,
in that little oven of a room,
with Sally making jokes and the others enjoying stolen sweets
with true girlish relish.

Of course it was very wicked,
but I must tell the truth.

"We were just beginning on the cake when the loud scratching of a rat disturbed us.

"
'The signal! fly! run! hide! Hush,
don't laugh!'
cried several voices,
and we scuttled into bed as rapidly and noiselessly as possible,
with our mouths and hands full.

"A long pause,
broken by more scratching;
but as no one came,
we decided on sending
to inquire what it meant.

I went and found Mary,
the picket guard half asleep,
and longing
for her share of the feast.

"
'It was a real rat;
I
've not made a sound.

Do go and finish;
I
'm tired of this,'
said Mary,
slapping away at the mosquitoes.

"Back I hurried
with the good news.

Every one flew up,
briskly.

We lighted the candle again,
and returned
to our revel.

The refreshments were somewhat injured by Sally's bouncing in among them,
bit we did n't care,
and soon finished the cake.

"
'Now let
's have the nuts,'
I said,
groping
for the paper bag.

"
'They are almonds and peanuts,
so we can crack them
with our teeth.

Be sure you get the bag by the right end,'
said Sally.

"
'I know what I
'm about,'
and
to show her that it was all right,
I gave the bag a little shake,
when out flew the nuts,
rattling like a hail-storm all over the uncarpeted floor.

"
'Now you
've done it,'
cried Sally,
as Mary scratched like a mad rat,
and a door creaked below,
for Miss Cotton was not deaf.

"Such a flurry as we were in! Out went the candle,
and each one rushed away
with as much of the feast as she could seize in her haste.

Sally dived into her bed,
recklessly demolishing the last pie,
and scattering the candy far and wide.

"Poor Mary was nearly caught
for Miss Cotton was quicker than Betsey,
and our guard had
to run
for her life.

"Our room was the first,
and was in good order,
though the two flushed faces on the pillows were rather suspicious.

Miss Cotton stood staring about her,
looking so funny,
without her cap,
that my bedfellow would have gone off in a fit of laughter,
if I had not pinched her warningly.

"
'Young ladies,
what is this unseemly noise?'
"No answer from us but a faint snore.

Miss Cotton marched into the next room,
put the same question and received the same reply.

"In the third chamber lay Sally,
and we trembled as the old lady went in.

Sitting up,
we peeped and listened breathlessly.

"
'Sarah,
I command you
to tell me what this all means?'
"But Sally only sighed in her sleep,
and muttered,
wickedly,
'Ma,
take me home.

I
'm starved at Cotton's.'
"
'Mercy on me! is the child going
to have a fever?'
cried the old lady,
who did not observe the tell tale nuts at her feet.

"
'So dull,
so strict! O take me home!'
moaned Sally,
tossing her arms and gurgling,
like a naughty little gypsy.

"That last bit of acting upset the whole concern,
for as she tossed her arms she showed the big red cushion on her breast.

Near-sighted as she was,
that ridiculous object could not escape Miss Cotton,
neither did the orange that rolled out from the pillow,
nor the boots appearing at the foot of the bed.

"With sudden energy the old lady plucked off the cover,
and there lay Sally
with her hair dressed .

la Topsy,
her absurd breast-pin and her dusty boots,
among papers of candy,
bits of pie and cake,
oranges and apples,
and a candle upside down burning a hole in the sheet.

"At the sound of Miss Cotton's horrified exclamation Sally woke up,
and began laughing so merrily that none of us could resist following her example,
and the rooms rang
with merriment far many minutes.

I really don't know when we should have stopped if Sally had not got choked
with the nut she had in her mouth,
and so frightened us nearly out of our wits."

"What became of the things,
and how were you punished?"
asked Fan,
in the middle of her laughter.

"The remains of the feast went
to the pig,
and we were kept on bread and water
for three days."

"Did that cure you?"
"Oh,
dear,
no! we had half a dozen other frolics that very summer;
and although I cannot help laughing at the remembrance of this,
you must not think,
child,
that I approve of such conduct,
or excuse it.

No,
no,
my dear,
far from it."

"I call that a,
tip-top story! Drive on,
grandma,
and tell one about boys,"
broke in a new voice,
and there was Tom astride of a chair listening and laughing
with all his might,
for his book had come
to an end,
and he had joined the party unobserved.

"Wait
for your turn,
Tommy.

Now,
Polly,
dear,
what will you have?"
said grandma,
looking,
so lively and happy,
that it was very evident
"reminiscing"
did her good.

"Let mine come last,
and tell one
for Tom next,"
said Polly,
looking round,
and beckoning him nearer.

He came and sat himself cross-legged on the floor,
before the lower drawer of the cabinet,
which grandma opened
for him,
saying,
with a benign stroke of the curly head,
"There,
dear,
that
's where I keep the little memorials of my brother Jack.

Poor lad,
he was lost at sea,
you know.

Well,
choose anything you like,
and I
'll try
to remember a story about it."

Tom made a rapid rummage,
and fished up a little broken pistol.

"There,
that
's the chap
for me! Wish it was n't spoilt,
then we
'd have fun popping away at the cats in the yard.

Now,
then,
grandma."

"I remember one of Jack's pranks,
when that was used
with great effect,"
said grandma,
after a thoughtful pause,
during which Tom teased the girls by snapping the lock of the pistol in their faces.

"Once upon a time,"
continued Madam,
much flattered by the row of interested faces before her,
"my father went away on business,
leaving mother,
aunt,
and us girls
to Jack's care.

Very proud he was,
to be sure,
of the responsibility,
and the first thing he did was
to load that pistol and keep it by his bed,
in our great worriment,
for we feared he
'd kill himself
with it.

For a week all went well;
then we were startled by the news that robbers were about.

All sorts of stories flew through the town
(we were living in the country then);
some said that certain houses were marked
with a black cross,
and those were always robbed;
others,
that there was a boy in the gang,
for windows,
so small that they were considered safe,
were entered by some little rogue.

At one place the thieves had a supper,
and left ham and cake in the front yard.

Mrs. Jones found Mrs. Smith's shawl in her orchard,
with a hammer and an unknown teapot near it.

One man reported that some one tapped at his window,
in the night,
saying,
softly,
'Is anyone here?'
and when he looked out,
two men were seen
to run down the road.

"We lived just out of town,
in a lonely place;
the house was old,
with convenient little back windows,
and five outside doors.

Jack was the only man about the place,
and he was barely thirteen.

Mother and aunt were very timid,
and the children weren't old enough
to be of any use,
so Jack and I were the home-guard,
and vowed
to defend the family manfully."

"Good
for you! Hope the fellows came!"
cried Tom,
charmed
with this opening.

"One day,
an ill-looking man came in and asked
for food,"
continued grandma,
with a mysterious nod;
"and while he ate,
I saw him glance sharply about from the wooden buttons on the back-doors,
to the silver urn and tankards on the dining-room sideboard.

A strong suspicion took possession of me,
and I watched him as a cat does a mouse.

"'He came
to examine the premises,
I
'm sure of it,
but we will be ready
for him,'
I said,
fiercely,
as I told the family about him.

"This fancy haunted us all,
and our preparations were very funny.

Mother borrowed a rattle,
and kept it under her pillow.

Aunt took a big bell
to bed
with her;
the children had little Tip,
the terrier,
to sleep in their room;
while Jack and I mounted guard,
he
with the pistol,
and I
with a hatchet,
for I did n't like fire-arMs. Biddy,
who slept in the attic,
practised getting out on the shed roof,
so that she might run away at the first alarm.

Every night we arranged pit-falls
for the robbers,
and all filed up
to bed,
bearing plate,
money,
weapons,
and things
to barricade with,
as if we lived in war times.

"We waited a week and no one came,
so we began
to feel rather slighted,
for other people got
'a scare,'
as Tom says,
and after all our preparations we really felt a trifle disappointed that we had had no chance
to show our courage.

At last a black mark was found upon our door,
and a great panic ensued,
for we felt that now our time had come.

"That night we put a tub of water at the bottom of the back-stairs,
and a pile of tin pans at the top of the front stairs,
so that any attempt
to come up would produce a splash or a rattle.

Bells were hung on door handles,
sticks of wood piled up in dark corners
for robbers
to fall over,
and the family retired,
all armed and all provided
with lamps and matches.

"Jack and I left our doors open,
and kept asking one another if we did n't hear something,
till he fell asleep.

I was wakeful and lay listening
to the crickets till the clock struck twelve;
then I got drowsy,
and was just dropping off when the sound of steps outside woke me up staring wide awake.

Creeping
to the window I was in time
to see by the dim moonlight a shadow glide round the corner and disappear.

A queer little thrill went over me,
but I resolved
to keep quiet till I was sure something was wrong,
for I had given so many false alarms,
I did n't want Jack
to laugh at me again.

Popping my head out of the door,
I listened,
and presently heard a scraping sound near the shed.

"
'There they are;
but I won't rouse the house till the bell rings or the pans fall.

The rogues can't go far without a clatter of some sort,
and if we could only catch one of them we should get the reward and a deal of glory,'
I said
to myself,
grasping my hatchet firmly.

"A door closed softly below,
and a step came creeping towards the back-stairs.

Sure now of my prey,
I was just about
to scream
'Jack!'
when something went splash into the tub at the foot of the back-stairs.

"In a minute every one was awake and up,
for Jack fired his pistol before he was half out of bed,
and roared
'Fire!'
so loud it roused the house.

Mother sprung her rattle,
aunt rang her bell,
Jip barked like mad,
and we all screamed,
while from below came up a regular Irish howl.

"Some one brought a lamp,
and we peeped anxiously down,
to see our own stupid Biddy sitting in the tub wringing her hands and wailing dismally.

"
'Och,
murther,
and it
's kilt I am! The saints be about us! how iver did I come forninst this say iv wather,
just crapin in quiet afther a bit iv sthroll wid Mike Mahoney,
me own b'y,
that
's
to marry me intirely,
come Saint Patrick's day nixt.'
"We laughed so we could hardly fish the poor thing up,
or listen while she explained that she had slipped out of her window
for a word
with Mike,
and found it fastened when she wanted
to come back,
so she had sat on the roof,
trying
to discover the cause of this mysterious barring out,
till she was tired,
when she prowled round the house till she found a cellar window unfastened,
after all our care,
and got in quite cleverly,
she thought;
but the tub was a new arrangement which she knew nothing about;
and when she fell into the
'say,'
she was bewildered and could only howl.

"This was not all the damage either,
for aunt fainted
with the fright,
mother cut her hand
with a broken lamp,
the children took cold hopping about on the wet stairs,
Jip barked himself sick,
I sprained my ankle,
and Jack not only smashed a looking-glass
with his bullets,
but spoilt his pistol by the heavy charge put in it.

After the damages were repaired and the flurry was well over,
Jack confessed that he had marked the door
for fun,
and shut Biddy out as a punishment for
'gallivanting,'
of which he did n't approve.

Such a rogue as that boy was!'
"
"But did n't the robbers ever come?"
cried Tom,
enjoying the joke,
but feeling defrauded of the fight.

"Never,
my dear;
but we had our
'scare,'
and tested our courage,
and that was a great satisfaction,
of course,"
answered grandma,
placidly.

"Well,
I think you were the bravest of the lot.

I
'd like
to have seen you flourishing round there
with your hatchet,"
added Tom,
admiringly,
and the old lady looked as much pleased
with the compliment as if she had been a girl.

"I choose this,"
said Polly,
holding up a long white kid glove,
shrunken and yellow
with time,
but looking as if it had a history.

"Ah,
that now has a story worth telling!"
cried grandma;
adding,
proudly,
"Treat that old glove respectfully,
my children,
for Lafayette's honored hand has touched it."

"Oh,
grandma,
did you wear it?

Did you see him?

Do tell us all about it,
and that will be the best of the whole,"
cried Polly,
who loved history,
and knew a good deal about the gallant Frenchman and his brave life.

Grandma loved
to tell this story,
and always assumed her most imposing air
to do honor
to her theme.

Drawing herself up,
therefore,
she folded her hands,
and after two or three little
"hems,"
began
with an absent look,
as if her eyes beheld a far-away time,
which brightened as she gazed.

"The first visit of Lafayette was before my time,
of course,
but I heard so much about it from my grandfather that I really felt as if I
'd seen it all.

Our Aunt Hancock lived in the Governor's house,
on Beacon Hill,
at that time."

Here the old lady bridled up still more,
for she was very proud of
"our aunt."

"Ah,
my dears,
those were the good old times!"
she continued,
with a sigh.

"Such dinners and tea parties,
such damask table cloths and fine plate,
such solid,
handsome furniture and elegant carriages;
aunt's was lined
with red silk velvet,
and when the coach was taken away from her at the Governor's death,
she just ripped out the lining.

and we girls had spencers made of it.

Dear heart,
how well I remember playing in aunt's great garden,
and chasing Jack up and down those winding stairs;
and my blessed father,
in his plum-colored coat and knee buckles,
and the queue I used
to tie up
for him every day,
handing aunt in
to dinner,
looking so dignified and splendid."

Grandma seemed
to forget her story
for a minute,
and become a little girl again,
among the playmates dead and gone so many years.

Polly motioned the others
to be quiet,
and no one spoke till the old lady,
with a long sigh,
came back
to the present,
and went on.

"Well,
as I was saying,
the Governor wanted
to give a breakfast
to the French officers,
and Madam,
who was a hospitable soul,
got up a splendid one
for them.

But by some mistake,
or accident,
it was discovered at the last minute that there was no milk.

"A great deal was needed,
and very little could be bought or borrowed,
so despair fell upon the cooks and maids,
and the great breakfast would have been a failure,
if Madam,
with the presence of mind of her sex,
had not suddenly bethought herself of the cows feeding on the Common.

"To be sure,
they belonged
to her neighbors,
and there was no time
to ask leave,
but it was a national affair;
our allies must be fed;
and feeling sure that her patriotic friends would gladly lay their cows on the altar of their country,
Madam Hancock covered herself
with glory,
by calmly issuing the command,
'Milk
'em!'
"It was done,
to the great astonishment of the cows,
and the entire satisfaction of the guests,
among whom was Lafayette.

"This milking feat was such a good joke,
that no one seems
to have remembered much about the great man,
though one of his officers,
a count,
signalized himself by getting very tipsy,
and going
to bed
with his boots and spurs on,
which caused the destruction of aunt's best yellow damask coverlet,
for the restless sleeper kicked it into rags by morning.

"Aunt valued it very much,
even in its tattered condition,
and kept it a long while,
as a memorial of her distinguished guests.

"The time when I saw Lafayette was in 1825,
and there were no tipsy counts then.

Uncle Hancock
(a sweet man,
my dears,
though some call him mean now-a-days)
was dead,
and aunt had married Captain Scott.

"It was not at all the thing
for her
to do;
however,
that
's neither here nor there.

She was living in Federal Street at the time,
a most aristocratic street then,
children,
and we lived close by.

"Old Josiah Quincy was mayor of the city,
and he sent aunt word that the Marquis Lafayette wished
to pay his respects
to her.

"Of course she was delighted,
and we all flew about
to make ready
for him.

Aunt was an old lady,
but she made a grand toilet,
and was as anxious
to look well as any girl."

"What did she wear?"
asked Fan,
with interest.

"She wore a steel-colored satin,
trimmed
with black lace,
and on her cap was pinned a Lafayette badge of white satin.

"I never shall forget how b-e-a-utifully she looked as she sat in state on the front parlor sophy,
right under a great portrait of her first husband;
and on either side of her sat Madam Storer and Madam Williams,
elegant
to behold,
in their stiff silks,
rich lace,
and stately turbans.

We don't see such splendid old ladies now-a-days
"
"I think we do sometimes,"
said Polly,
slyly.

Grandma shook her head,
but it pleased her very much
to be admired,
for she had been a beauty in her day.

"We girls had dressed the house
with flowers;
old Mr. Coolidge sent in a clothes-basket full.

Joe Joy provided the badges,
and aunt got out some of the Revolutionary wine from the old Beacon Street cellar.

"I wore my green and white palmyrine,
my hair bowed high,
the beautiful leg-o'-mutton sleeves that were so becoming,
and these very gloves.

"Well,
by-and-by the General,
escorted by the Mayor,
drove up.

Dear me,
I see him now! a little old man in nankeen trousers and vest,
a long blue coat and ruffled shirt,
leaning on his cane,
for he was lame,
and smiling and bowing like a true Frenchman.

"As he approached,
the three old ladies rose,
and courtesied
with the utmost dignity.

Lafayette bowed first
to the Governor's picture,
then
to the Governor's widow,
and kissed her hand.

"That was droll;
for on the back of her glove was stamped Lafayette's likeness,
and the gallant old gentleman kissed his own face.

"Then some of the young ladies were presented,
and,
as if
to escape any further self-salutations,
the marquis kissed the pretty girls on the cheek.

"Yes,
my dears,
here is just the spot where the dear old man saluted me.

I
'm quite as proud of it now as I was then,
for he was a brave,
good man,
and helped us in our trouble.

"He did not stay long,
but we were very merry,
drinking his health,
receiving his compliments,
and enjoying the honor he did us.

"Down in the street there was a crowd,
of course,
and when he left they wanted
to take out the horses and drag him home in triumph.

But he did n't wish it;
and while that affair was being arranged,
we girls had been pelting him
with the flowers which we tore from the vases,
the walls,
and our own topknots,
to scatter over him.

"He liked that,
and laughed,
and waved his hand
to us,
while we ran,
and pelted,
and begged him
to come again.

"We young folks quite lost our heads that night,
and I have n't a very clear idea of how I got home.

The last thing I remember was hanging out of the window
with a flock of girls,
watching the carriage roll away,
while the crowd cheered as if they were mad.

"Bless my heart,
it seems as if I heard
'em now!
'Hurrah
for Lafayette and Mayor Quincy! Hurrah
for Madam Hancock and the pretty girls! Hurrah
for Col.

May!'
'Three cheers
for Boston! Now,
then! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!'
"
And here the old lady stopped,
out of breath,
with her cap askew,
her spectacles on the end of her nose,
and her knitting much the worse
for being waved enthusiastically in the air,
while she hung over the arm of her chair,
shrilly cheering an imaginary Lafayette.

The girls clapped their hands,
and Tom hurrahed
with all his might,
saying,
when he got his breath,
"Lafayette was a regular old trump;
I always liked him."

"My dear! what a disrespectful way
to speak of that great man,"
said grandma,
shocked at Young America's irreverence.

"Well,
he was a trump,
anyway,
so why not call him one?"
asked Tom,
feeling that the objectionable word was all that could be desired.

"What queer gloves you wore then,"
interrupted Fanny,
who had been trying on the much-honored glove,
and finding it a tight fit.

"Much better and cheaper than we have now,"
returned grandma,
ready
to defend
"the good old times"
against every insinuation.

"You are an extravagant set now-a-days,
and I really don't know what you are coming to.

By the way,
I
've got somewhere two letters written by two young ladies,
one in 1517,
and the other in 1868.

The contrast between the two will amuse you,
I think."

After a little search,
grandma produced an old portfolio,
and selecting the papers,
read the following letter,
written by Anne Boleyn before her marriage
to Henry VIII,
and now in the possession of a celebrated antiquarian:

DEAR MARY,
I have been in town almost a month,
yet I cannot say I have found anything in London extremely agreeable.

We rise so late in the morning,
seldom before six o'clock,
and sit up so late at night,
being scarcely in bed before ten,
that I am quite sick of it;
and was it not
for the abundance of fine things I am every day getting I should be impatient of returning into the country.

My indulgent mother bought me,
yesterday,
at a merchant's in Cheapside,
three new shifts,
that cost fourteen pence an ell,
and I am
to have a pair of new stuff shoes,
for my Lord of Norfolk's ball,
which will be three shillings.

The irregular life I have led since my coming
to this place has quite destroyed my appetite.

You know I could manage a pound of bacon and a tankard of good ale
for my breakfast,
in the country,
but in London I find it difficult
to get through half the quantity,
though I must own I am generally eager enough
for the dinner hour,
which is here delayed till twelve,
in your polite society.

I played at hot cockles,
last night,
at my Lord of Leicester's.

The Lord of Surrey was there,
a very elegant young man,
who sung a song of his own composition,
on the
"Lord of Kildare's Daughter."

It was much approved,
and my brother whispered me that the fair Geraldine,
for so my Lord of Surrey calls his sweetheart,
is the finest woman of the age.

I should be glad
to see her,
for I hear she is good as she is beautiful.

Pray take care of the poultry during my absence.

Poor things! I always fed them myself;
and if Margery has knitted me the crimson worsted mittens,
I should be glad if they were sent up the first opportunity.

Adieu,
dear Mary.

I am just going
to mass,
and you shall speedily have the prayers,
as you have now the kindest love of your own ANNE BOLEYN.

"Up before six,
and think it late
to go
to bed at ten! What a countrified thing Anne must have been.

Bacon and ale
for breakfast,
and dinner at twelve;
how very queer
to live so!"
cried Fanny.

"Lord Surrey and Lord Leicester sound fine,
but hot cockles,
and red mittens,
and shoes
for three shillings,
are horrid."

"I like it,"
said Polly,
thoughtfully,
"and I
'm glad poor Anne had a little fun before her troubles began.

May I copy that letter some time,
grandma?"
"Yes,
dear,
and welcome.

Now,
here
's the other,
by a modern girl on her first visit
to London.

This will suit you better,
Fan,"
and grandma read what a friend had sent her as a pendant
to Anne's little picture of London life long ago:

MY DEAREST CONSTANCE,
After three months of intense excitement I snatch a leisure moment
to tell you how much I enjoy my first visit
to London.

Having been educated abroad,
it really seems like coming
to a strange city.

At first the smoke,
dirt and noise were very disagreeable,
but I soon got used
to these things,
and now find all I see perfectly charming.

We plunged at once into a whirl of gayety and I have had no time
to think of anything but pleasure.

It is the height of the season,
and every hour is engaged either in going
to balls,
concerts,
theatres,
f^tes and church,
or in preparing
for them.

We often go
to two or three parties in an evening,
and seldom get home till morning,
so of course we don't rise till noon next day.

This leaves very little time
for our drives,
shopping,
and calls before dinner at eight,
and then the evening gayeties begin again.

At a ball at Lady Russell's last night,
I saw the Prince of Wales,
and danced in the set
with him.

He is growing stout,
and looks dissipated.

I was disappointed in him,
for neither in appearance nor conversation was he at all princely.

I was introduced
to a very brilliant and delightful young gentleman from America.

I was charmed
with him,
and rather surprised
to learn that he wrote the poems which were so much admired last season,
also that he is the son of a rich tailor.

How odd these Americans are,
with their money,
and talent,
and independence! O my dear,
I must not forget
to tell you the great event of my first season.

I am
to be presented at the next Drawing Room! Think how absorbed I must be in preparation
for this grand affair.

Mamma is resolved that I shall do her credit,
and we have spent the last two weeks driving about from milliners
to mantua-makers,
from merchants
to jewellers.

I am
to wear white satin and plumes,
pearls and roses.

My dress will cost a hundred pounds or more,
and is very elegant.

My cousins and friends lavish lovely things upon me,
and you will open your unsophisticated eyes when I display my silks and laces,
trinkets and French hats,
not
to mention billet deux,
photographs,
and other relics of a young belle's first season.

You ask if I ever think of home.

I really have n't time,
but I do sometimes long a little
for the quiet,
the pure air and the girlish amusements I used
to enjoy so much.

One gets pale,
and old,
and sadly fagged out,
with all this dissipation,
pleasant as it is.

I feel quite blas,
already.

If you could send me the rosy cheeks,
bright eyes,
and gay spirits I always had at home,
I
'd thank you.

As you cannot do that,
please send me a bottle of June rain water,
for my maid tells me it is better than any cosmetic
for the complexion,
and mine is getting ruined by late hours.

I fancy some fruit off our own trees would suit me,
for I have no appetite,
and mamma is quite desol,e about me.

One cannot live on French cookery without dyspepsia,
and one can get nothing simple here,
for food,
like everything else,
is regulated by the fashion.

Adieu,
ma chSre,
I must dress
for church.

I only wish you could see my new hat and go
with me,
for Lord Rockingham promised
to be there.

Adieu,
yours eternally,
FLORENCE.

"Yes,
I do like that better,
and I wish I had been in this girl's place,
don't you,
Polly?"
said Fan,
as grandma took off her glasses.

"I should love
to go
to London,
and have a good time,
but I don't think I should care about spending ever so much money,
or going
to Court.

Maybe I might when I got there,
for I do like fun and splendor,"
added honest Polly,
feeling that pleasure was a very tempting thing.

"Grandma looks tired;
let
's go and play in the dwying-woom,"
said Maud,
who found the conversation getting beyond her depth.

"Let us all kiss and thank grandma,
for amusing us so nicely,
before we go,"
whispered Polly.

Maud and Fanny agreed,
and grandma looked so gratified by their thanks,
that Tom followed suit,
merely waiting till
"those girls"
were out of sight,
to give the old lady a hearty hug,
and a kiss on the very cheek Lafayette had saluted.

When he reached the play-room Polly was sitting in the swing,
saying,
very earnestly,
"I always told you it was nice up in grandma's room,
and now you see it is.

I wish you
'd go oftener;
she admires
to have you,
and likes
to tell stories and do pleasant things,
only she thinks you don't care
for her quiet sort of fun.

I do,
anyway,
and I think she
's the kindest,
best old lady that ever lived,
and I love her dearly!"
"I did n't say she was n't,
only old people are sort of tedious and fussy,
so I keep out of their way,"
said Fanny.

"Well,
you ought not to,
and you miss lots of pleasant times.

My mother says we ought
to be kind and patient and respectful
to all old folks just because they are old,
and I always mean
to be."

"Your mother
's everlastingly preaching,"
muttered Fan,
nettled by the consciousness of her own shortcomings
with regard
to grandma.

"She don't preach!"
cried Polly,
firing up like a flash;
"she only explains things
to us,
and helps us be good,
and never scolds,
and I
'd rather have her than any other mother in the world,
though she don't wear velvet cloaks and splendid bonnets,
so now!"
"Go it,
Polly!"
called Tom,
who was gracefully hanging head downward from the bar put up
for his special benefit.

"Polly
's mad! Polly
's mad!"
sung Maud,
skipping rope round the room.

"If Mr. Sydney could see you now he would n't think you such an angel any more,"
added Fanny,
tossing a bean-bag and her head at the same time.

Polly was mad,
her face was very red,
her eyes very bright and her lips twitched,
but she held her tongue and began
to swing as hard as she could,
fearing
to say something she would be sorry
for afterward.

For a few minutes no one spoke,
Tom whistled and Maud hummed but Fan and Polly were each soberly thinking of something,
for they had reached an age when children,
girls especially,
begin
to observe,
contrast,
and speculate upon the words,
acts,
manners,
and looks of those about them.

A good deal of thinking goes on in the heads of these shrewd little folks,
and the elders should mind their ways,
for they get criticised pretty sharply and imitated very closely.

Two little things had happened that day,
and the influence of a few words,
a careless action,
was still working in the active minds of the girls.

Mr. Sydney had called,
and while Fanny was talking
with him she saw his eye rest on Polly,
who sat apart watching the faces round her
with the modest,
intelligent look which many found so attractive.

At that minute Madam Shaw came in,
and stopped
to speak
to the little girl.

Polly rose at once,
and remained standing till the old lady passed on.

"Are you laughing at Polly's prim ways?"
Fanny had asked,
as she saw Mr. Sydney smile.

"No,
I am admiring Miss Polly's fine manners,"
he answered in a grave,
respectful tone,
which had impressed Fanny very much,
for Mr. Sydney was considered by all the girls as a model of good breeding,
and that indescribable something which they called
"elegance."

Fanny wished she had done that little thing,
and won that approving look,
for she valued the young man's good opinion,
because it was so hard
to win,
by her set at least.

So,
when Polly talked about old people,
it recalled this scene and made Fan cross.

Polly was remembering how,
when Mrs. Shaw came home that day in her fine visiting costume,
and Maud ran
to welcome her
with unusual affection,
she gathered up her lustrous silk and pushed the little girl away saying,
impatiently,
"Don't touch me,
child,
your hands are dirty."

Then the thought had come
to Polly that the velvet cloak did n't cover a right motherly heart,
that the fretful face under the nodding purple plumes was not a tender motherly face,
and that the hands in the delicate primrose gloves had put away something very sweet and precious.

She thought of another woman,
whose dress never was too fine
for little wet cheeks
to lie against,
or loving little arms
to press;
whose face,
in spite of many lines and the gray hairs above it,
was never sour or unsympathetic when children's eyes turned towards it;
and whose hands never were too busy,
too full or too nice
to welcome and serve the little sons and daughters who freely brought their small hopes and fears,
sins and sorrows,
to her,
who dealt out justice and mercy
with such wise love.

"Ah,
that
's a mother!"
thought Polly,
as the memory came warm into her heart,
making her feel very rich,
and pity Maud
for being so poor.

This it was that caused such sudden indignation at Fanny's dreadful speech,
and this it was that made quick-tempered Polly try
to calm her wrath before she used toward Fanny's mother the disrespectful tone she so resented toward her own.

As the swing came down after some dozen quick journeys
to and fro,
Polly seemed
to have found a smile somewhere up aloft,
for she looked toward Fan,
saying pleasantly,
as she paused a little in her airy exercise,
"I
'm not mad now,
shall I come and toss
with you?"
"No,
I
'll come and swing
with you,"
answered Fanny,
quick
to feel the generous spirit of her friend.

"You are an angel,
and I
'll never be so rude again,"
she added,
as Polly's arm came round her,
and half the seat was gladly offered.

"No,
I ain't;
but if I ever get at all like one,
it will be
'mother's preaching'
that did it,"
said Polly,
with a happy laugh.

"Good
for you,
Polly Peacemaker,"
cried Tom,
quoting his father,
and giving them a grand push as the most appropriate way of expressing his approbation of the sentiment.

Nothing more was said;
but from that day there slowly crept into the family more respect
for grandma,
more forbearance
with her infirmities,
more interest in her little stories,
and many a pleasant gossip did the dear old lady enjoy
with the children as they gathered round her fire,
solitary so long.

CHAPTER VII GOOD-BY
"OH,
dear! Must you really go home Saturday?"
said Fan,
some days after what Tom called the
"grand scrimmage."

"I really must;
for I only came
to stay a month and here I
've been nearly six weeks,"
answered Polly,
feeling as if she had been absent a year.

"Make it two months and stay over Christmas.

Come,
do,
now,"
urged Tom,
heartily.

"You are very kind;
but I would n't miss Christmas at home
for anything.

Besides,
mother says they can't possibly do without me."

"Neither can we.

Can't you tease your mother,
and make up your mind
to stay?"
began Fan.

"Polly never teases.

She says it
's selfish;
and I don't do it now much,"
put in Maud,
with a virtuous air.

"Don't you bother Polly.

She
'd rather go,
and I don't wonder.

Let
's be just as jolly as we can while she stays,
and finish up
with your party,
Fan,"
said Tom,
in a tone that settled the matter.

Polly had expected
to be very happy in getting ready
for the party;
but when the time came,
she was disappointed;
for somehow that naughty thing called envy took possession of her,
and spoiled her pleasure.

Before she left home,
she thought her new white muslin dress,
with its fresh blue ribbons,
the most elegant and proper costume she could have;
but now,
when she saw Fanny's pink silk,
with a white tarlatan tunic,
and innumerable puffings,
bows,
and streamers,
her own simple little toilet lost all its charms in her eyes,
and looked very babyish and old-fashioned.

Even Maud was much better dressed than herself,
and looked very splendid in her cherry-colored and white suit,
with a sash so big she could hardly carry it,
and little white boots
with red buttons.

They both had necklaces and bracelets,
ear-rings and brooches;
but Polly had no ornament,
except the plain locket on a bit of blue velvet.

Her sash was only a wide ribbon,
tied in a simple bow,
and nothing but a blue snood in the pretty curls.

Her only comfort was the knowledge that the modest tucker drawn up round the plump shoulders was real lace,
and that her bronze boots cost nine dollars.

Poor Polly,
with all her efforts
to be contented,
and not
to mind looking unlike other people,
found it hard work
to keep her face bright and her voice happy that night.

No one dreamed what was going an under the muslin frock,
till grandma's wise old eyes spied out the little shadow on Polly's spirits,
and guessed the cause of it.

When dressed,
the three girls went up
to show themselves
to the elders,
who were in grandma's room,
where Tom was being helped into an agonizingly stiff collar.

Maud pranced like a small peacock,
and Fan made a splendid courtesy as every one turned
to survey them;
but Polly stood still,
and her eyes went from face
to face,
with an anxious,
wistful air,
which seemed
to say,
"I know I
'm not right;
but I hope I don't look very bad."

Grandma read the look in a minute;
and when Fanny said,
with a satisfied smile,
"How do we look?"
she answered,
drawing Polly toward her so kindly.

"Very like the fashion-plates you got the patterns of your dresses from.

But this little costume suits me best."

"Do you really think I look nice?"
and Polly's face brightened,
for she valued the old lady's opinion very much.

"Yes,
my dear;
you look just as I like
to see a child of your age look.

What particularly pleases me is that you have kept your promise
to your mother,
and have n't let anyone persuade you
to wear borrowed finery.

Young things like you don't need any ornaments but those you wear to-night,
youth,
health,
intelligence,
and modesty."

As she spoke,
grandma gave a tender kiss that made Polly glow like a rose,
and
for a minute she forgot that there were such things as pink silk and coral ear-rings in the world.

She only said,
"Thank you,
ma'am,"
and heartily returned the kiss;
but the words did her good,
and her plain dress looked charming all of a sudden.

"Polly
's so pretty,
it don't matter what she wears,"
observed Tom,
surveying her over his collar
with an air of calm approval.

"She has n't got any bwetelles
to her dwess,
and I have,"
said Maud,
settling her ruffled bands over her shoulders,
which looked like cherry-colored wings on a stout little cherub.

"I did wish she
'd just wear my blue set,
ribbon is so very plain;
but,
as Tom says,
it don't much matter;"
and Fanny gave an effective touch
to the blue bow above Polly's left temple.

"She might wear flowers;
they always suit young girls,"
said Mrs. Shaw,
privately thinking that her own daughters looked much the best,
yet conscious that blooming Polly had the most attractive face.

"Bless me! I forgot my posies in admiring the belles.

Hand them out,
Tom;"
and Mr. Shaw nodded toward an interesting looking box that stood on the table.

Seizing them wrong side-up,
Tom produced three little bouquets,
all different in color,
size,
and construction.

"Why,
papa! how very kind of you,"
cried Fanny,
who had not dared
to receive even a geranium leaf since the late scrape.

"Your father used
to be a very gallant young gentleman,
once upon a time,"
said Mrs. Shaw,
with a simper.

"Ah,
Tom,
it
's a good sign when you find time
to think of giving pleasure
to your little girls!"
And grandma patted her son's bald head as if he was n't more than eighteen.

Thomas Jr. had given a somewhat scornful sniff at first;
but when grandma praised his father,
the young man thought better of the matter,
and regarded the flowers
with more respect,
as he asked,
"Which is
for which?"
"Guess,"
said Mr. Shaw,
pleased that his unusual demonstration had produced such an effect.

The largest was a regular hothouse bouquet,
of tea-rosebuds,
scentless heath,
and smilax;
the second was just a handful of sweet-peas and mignonette,
with a few cheerful pansies,
and one fragrant little rose in the middle;
the third,
a small posy of scarlet verbenas,
white feverfew,
and green leaves.

"Not hard
to guess.

The smart one
for Fan,
the sweet one
for Polly,
and the gay one
for Pug.

Now,
then,
catch hold,
girls."

And Tom proceeded
to deliver the nosegays,
with as much grace as could be expected from a youth in a new suit of clothes and very tight boots.

"That finishes you off just right,
and is a very pretty attention of papa's.

Now run down,
for the bell has rung;
and remember,
not
to dance too often,
Fan;
be as quiet as you can,
Tom;
and.

Maud,
don't eat too much supper.

Grandma will attend
to things,
for my poor nerves won't allow me
to come down."

With that,
Mrs. Shaw dismissed them,
and the four descended
to receive the first batch of visitors,
several little girls who had been asked
for the express purpose of keeping Maud out of her sister's way.

Tom had likewise been propitiated,
by being allowed
to bring his three bosom friends,
who went by the school-boy names of Rumple,
Sherry,
and Spider.

"They will do
to make up sets,
as gentlemen are scarce;
and the party is
for Polly,
so I must have some young folks on her account,"
said Fanny,
when sending out her invitations.

Of course,
the boys came early,
and stood about in corners,
looking as if they had more arms and legs than they knew what
to do with.

Tom did his best
to be a good host;
but ceremony oppressed his spirits,
and he was forced
to struggle manfully
with the wild desire
to propose a game of leap-frog,
for the long drawing-rooms,
cleared
for dancing,
tempted him sorely.

Polly sat where she was told,
and suffered bashful agonies as Fan introduced very fine young ladies and very stiff young gentlemen,
who all said about the same civil things,
and then appeared
to forget all about her.

When the first dance was called,
Fanny cornered Tom,
who had been dodging her,
for he knew what she wanted,
and said,
in an earnest whisper:

"Now,
Tom,
you must dance this
with Polly.

You are the young gentleman of the house,
and it
's only proper that you should ask your company first."

"Polly don't care
for manners.

I hate dancing;
don't know how.

Let go my jacket,
and don't bother,
or I
'll cut away altogether,"
growled Tom,
daunted by the awful prospect of opening the ball
with Polly.

"I
'll never forgive you if you do.

Come,
be clever,
and help me,
there
's a dear.

You know we both were dreadfully rude
to Polly,
and agreed that we
'd be as kind and civil
to her as ever we could.

I shall keep my word,
and see that she is n't slighted at my party,
for I want her
to love me,
and go home feeling all right."

This artful speech made an impression on the rebellious Thomas,
who glanced at Polly's happy face,
remembered his promise,
and,
with a groan,
resolved
to do his duty.

"Well,
I
'll take her;
but I shall come
to grief,
for I don't know anything about your old dances."

"Yes,
you do.

I
've taught you the steps a dozen times.

I
'm going
to begin
with a redowa,
because the girls like it,
and it
's better fun than square dances.

Now,
put on your gloves,
and go and ask Polly like a gentleman."

"Oh,
thunder!"
muttered Tom.

And having split the detested gloves in dragging them on,
he nerved himself
for the effort,
walked up
to Polly,
made a stiff bow,
stuck out his elbow,
and said,
solemnly,
"May I have the pleasure,
Miss Milton?"
He did it as much like the big fellows as he could,
and expected that Polly would be impressed.

But she was n't a bit;
for after a surprised look she laughed in his face,
and took him by the hand,
saying,
heartily,
"Of course you may;
but don't be a goose,
Tommy."

"Well,
Fan told me
to be elegant,
so I tried to,"
whispered Tom,
adding,
as he clutched his partner
with a somewhat desperate air,
"Hold on tight,
and we
'll get through somehow."

The music struck up,
and away they went;
Tom hopping one way and Polly the other,
in a most ungraceful manner.

"Keep time
to the music,"
gasped Polly.

"Can't;
never could,"
returned Tom.

"Keep step
with me,
then,
and don't tread on my toes,"
pleaded Polly.

"Never mind;
keep bobbing,
and we
'll come right by and by,"
muttered Tom,
giving his unfortunate partner a sudden whisk,
which nearly landed both on the floor.

But they did not
"get right by and by";
for Tom,
In his frantic efforts
to do his duty,
nearly annihilated poor Polly.

He tramped,
he bobbed,
he skated,
he twirled her
to the right,
dragged her
to the left,
backed her up against people and furniture,
trod on her feet,
rumpled her dress,
and made a spectacle of himself generally.

Polly was much disturbed;
but as everyone else was flying about also,
she bore it as long as she could,
knowing that Tom had made a martyr of himself,
and feeling grateful
to him
for the sacrifice.

"Oh,
do stop now;
this is dreadful!"
cried Polly,
breathlessly,
after a few wild turns.

"Is n't it?"
said Tom,
wiping his red face
with such an air of intense relief,
that Polly had not the heart
to scold him,
but said,
"Thank you,"
and dropped into a chair exhausted.

"I know I
've made a guy of myself;
but Fan insisted on it,
for fear you
'd be offended if I did n't go the first dance
with you,"
said Tom,
remorsefully,
watching Polly as she settled the bow of her crushed sash,
which Tom had used as a sort of handle by which
to turn and twist her;
"I can do the Lancers tip-top;
but you won't ever want
to dance
with me any more,"
he added,
as he began
to fan her so violently,
that her hair flew about as if in a gale of wind.

"Yes,
I will.

I
'd like to;
and you shall put your name down here on the sticks of my fan.

That
's the way,
Trix says,
when you don't have a ball-book."

Looking much gratified,
Tom produced the stump of a lead-pencil,
and wrote his name
with a flourish,
saying,
as he gave it back,
"Now I
'm going
to get Sherry,
or some of the fellows that do the redowa well,
so you can have a real good go before the music stops."

Off went Tom;
but before he could catch any eligible partner,
Polly was provided
with the best dancer in the room.

Mr. Sydney had seen and heard the whole thing;
and though he had laughed quietly,
he liked honest Tom and good-natured Polly all the better
for their simplicity.

Polly's foot was keeping time
to the lively music,
and her eyes were fixed wistfully on the smoothly-gliding couples before her,
when Mr. Sydney came
to her,
saying,
in the pleasant yet respectful way she liked so much,
"Miss Polly,
can you give me a turn?"
"Oh,
yes;
I
'm dying
for another."

And Polly jumped up,
with both hands out,
and such a grateful face,
that Mr. Sydney resolved she should have as many turns as she liked.

This time all went well;
and Tom,
returning from an unsuccessful search,
was amazed
to behold Polly circling gracefully about the room,
guided by a most accomplished partner.

"Ah,
that
's something like,"
he thought,
as he watched the bronze boots retreating and advancing in perfect time
to the music.

"Don't see how Sydney does the steering so well;
but it must be fun;
and,
by Jupiter! I
'll learn it!"
added Shaw,
Jr. ,
with an emphatic gesture which burst the last button off his gloves.

Polly enjoyed herself till the music stopped;
and before she had time
to thank Mr,
Sydney as warmly as she wished,
Tom came up
to say,
with his most lordly air,
"You dance splendidly,
Polly.

Now,
you just show me any one you like the looks of,
and I
'll get him
for you,
no matter who he is."

"I don't want any of the gentlemen;
they are so stiff,
and don't care
to dance
with me;
but I like those boys over there,
and I
'll dance
with any of them if they are willing,"
said Polly,
after a survey.

"I
'll trot out the whole lot."

And Tom gladly brought up his friends,
who all admired Polly immensely,
and were proud
to be chosen instead of the
"big fellows."

There was no sitting still
for Polly after that,
for the lads kept her going at a great pace;
and she was so happy,
she never saw or suspected how many little manoeuvres,
heart-burnings,
displays of vanity,
affectation,
and nonsense were going on all round her.

She loved dancing,
and entered into the gayety of the scene
with a heartiness that was pleasant
to see.

Her eyes shone,
her face glowed,
her lips smiled,
and the brown curls waved in the air,
as she danced,
with a heart as light as her feet.

"Are you enjoying yourself,
Polly?"
asked Mr. Shaw,
who looked in,
now and then,
to report
to grandma that all was going well.

"Oh,
such a splendid time!"
cried Polly,
with an enthusiastic little gesture,
as she chass,ed into the corner where he stood.

"She is a regular belle among the boys,"
said Fanny,
as she promenaded by.

"They are so kind in asking me and I
'm not afraid of them,"
explained Polly,
prancing,
simply because she could n't keep still.

"So you are afraid of the young gentlemen,
hey?"
and Mr. Shaw held her by one curl.

"All but Mr. Sydney.

He don't put on airs and talk nonsense;
and,
oh! he does
'dance like an angel,'
as Trix says."

"Papa,
I wish you
'd come and waltz
with me.

Fan told me not
to go near her,
'cause my wed dwess makes her pink one look ugly;
and Tom won't;
and I want
to dwedfully."

"I
've forgotten how,
Maudie.

Ask Polly;
she
'll spin you round like a teetotum."

"Mr. Sydney's name is down
for that,"
answered Polly,
looking at her fan
with a pretty little air of importance."

But I guess he would n't mind my taking poor Maud instead.

She has n't danced hardly any,
and I
've had more than my share.

Would it be very improper
to change my mind?"
And Polly looked up at her tall partner
with eye which plainly showed that the change was a sacrifice.

"Not a bit.

Give the little dear a good waltz,
and we will look on,"
answered Mr. Sydney,
with a nod and smile.

"That is a refreshing little piece of nature,"
said Mr. Shaw,
as Polly and Maud whirled away.

"She will make a charming little woman,
if she is n't spoilt."

"No danger of that.

She has got a sensible mother."

"I thought so."

And Sydney sighed,
for he had lately lost his own good mother.

When supper was announced,
Polly happened
to be talking,
or trying
to talk,
to one of the
"poky"
gentlemen whom Fan had introduced.

He took Miss Milton down,
of course,
put her in a corner,
and having served her
to a dab of ice and one macaroon,
he devoted himself
to his own supper
with such interest,
that Polly would have fared badly,
if Tom had not come and rescued her.

"I
've been looking everywhere
for you.

Come
with me,
and don't sit starving here,"
said Tom,
with a scornful look from her empty plate
to that of her recreant escort,
which was piled
with good things.

Following her guide,
Polly was taken
to the big china closet,
opening from the dining-room
to the kitchen,
and here she found a jovial little party feasting at ease.

Maud and her bosom friend,
"Gwace,"
were seated on tin cake-boxes;
Sherry and Spider adorned the refrigerator;
while Tom and Rumple foraged
for the party.

Here
's fun,"
said Polly,
as she was received
with a clash of spoons and a waving of napkins.

"You just perch on that cracker-keg,
and I
'll see that you get enough,"
said Tom,
putting a dumbwaiter before her,
and issuing his orders
with a fine air of authority.

"We are a band of robbers in our cave,
and I
'm the captain;
and we pitch into the folks passing by,
and go out and bring home plunder.

Now,
Rumple,
you go and carry off a basket of cake,
and I
'll watch here till Katy comes by
with a fresh lot of oysters;
Polly must have some.

Sherry,
cut into the kitchen,
and bring a cup of coffee.

Spider,
scrape up the salad,
and poke the dish through the slide
for more.

Eat away,
Polly,
and my men will be back
with supplies in a jiffy."

Such fun as they had in that closet;
such daring robberies of jelly-pots and cake-boxes;
such successful raids into the dining-room and kitchen;
such base assaults upon poor Katy and the colored waiter,
who did his best,
but was helpless in the hands of the robber horde.

A very harmless little revel;
for no wine was allowed,
and the gallant band were so busy skirmishing
to supply the ladies,
that they had not time
to eat too much.

No one missed them;
and when they emerged,
the feast was over,
except
for a few voracious young gentlemen,
who still lingered among the ruins.

"That
's the way they always do;
poke the girls in corners,
give
'em just one taste of something,
and then go and stuff like pigs,"
whispered Tom,
with a superior air,
forgetting certain private banquets of his own,
after company had departed.

The rest of the evening was
to be devoted
to the German;
and,
as Polly knew nothing about it,
she established herself in a window recess
to watch the mysteries.

For a time she enjoyed it,
for it was all new
to her,
and the various pretty devices were very charming;
but,
by and by,
that bitter weed,
envy,
cropped up again,
and she could not feel happy
to be left out in the cold,
while the other girls were getting gay tissue-paper suits,
droll bonbons,
flowers,
ribbons,
and all manner of tasteful trifles in which girlish souls delight.

Everyone was absorbed;
Mr. Sydney was dancing;
Tom and his friends were discussing base-ball on the stairs;
and Maud's set had returned
to the library
to play.

Polly tried
to conquer the bad feeling;
but it worried her,
till she remembered something her mother once said
to her,
"When you feel out of sorts,
try
to make some one else happy,
and you will soon be so yourself."

"I will try it,"
thought Polly,
and looked round
to see what she could do.

Sounds of strife in the library led her
to enter.

Maud and the young ladies were sitting on the sofa,
talking about each other's clothes,
as they had seen their mammas do.

"Was your dress imported?"
asked Grace.

"No;
was yours?"
returned Blanche.

"Yes;
and it cost oh,
ever so much."

"I don't think it is as pretty as Maud's."

"Mine was made in New York,"
said Miss Shaw,
smoothing her skirts complacently.

"I can't dress much now,
you know,
'cause mamma's in black
for somebody,"
observed Miss Alice Lovett,
feeling the importance which affliction conferred upon her when it took the form of a jet necklace.

"Well,
I don't care if my dress is n't imported;
my cousin had three kinds of wine at her party;
so,
now,"
said Blanche.

"Did she?"
And all the little girls looked deeply impressed,
till Maud observed,
with a funny imitation of her father's manner,
"My papa said it was scan-dill-us;
for some of the little boys got tipsy,
and had
to be tooked home.

He would n't let us have any wine;
and gwandma said it was vewy impwoper
for childwen
to do so."

"My mother says your mother's coup,
is n't half so stylish as ours,"
put in Alice.

"Yes,
it is,
too.

It
's all lined
with gween silk,
and that
's nicer than old wed cloth,"
cried Maud,
ruffling up like an insulted chicken.

"Well,
my brother don't wear a horrid old cap,
and he
's got nice hair.

I would n't have a brother like Tom.

He
's horrid rude,
my sister says,"
retorted Alice.

"He is n't.

Your brother is a pig."

"You
're a fib!"
"So are you!"
Here,
I regret
to say,
Miss Shaw slapped Miss Lovett,
who promptly returned the compliment,
and both began
to cry.

Polly,
who had paused
to listen
to the edifying chat,
parted the belligerents,
and finding the poor things tired,
cross,
and sleepy,
yet unable
to go home till sent for,
proposed
to play games.

The young ladies consented,
and
"Puss in the corner"
proved a peacemaker.

Presently,
in came the boys;
and being exiles from the German,
gladly joined in the games,
which soon were lively enough
to wake the sleepiest.

"Blind-man's-buff"
was in full swing when Mr. Shaw peeped in,
and seeing Polly flying about
with band-aged eyes,
joined in the fun
to puzzle her.

He got caught directly;
and great merriment was caused by Polly's bewilderment,
for she could n't guess who he was,
till she felt the bald spot on his head.

This frolic put every one in such spirits,
that Polly forgot her trouble,
and the little girls kissed each other good-night as affectionately as if such things as imported frocks,
coup,s,
and rival brothers did n't exist
"Well,
Polly,
do you like parties?"
asked Fan when the last guest was gone.

"Very much;
but I don't think it would be good
for me
to go
to many,"
answered Polly,
slowly.

"Why not?"
"I should n't enjoy them if I did n't have a fine dress,
and dance all the time,
and be admired,
and all the rest of it."

"I did n't know you cared
for such things,"
cried Fanny,
surprised.

"Neither did I till to-night;
but I do;
and as I can't have
'em,
it
's lucky I
'm going home tomorrow."

"Oh,
dear! So you are! What shall I do without my
'sweet P.,'
as Sydney calls you?"
sighed Fanny,
bearing Polly away
to be cuddled.

Every one echoed the exclamation next day;
and many loving eyes followed the little figure in the drab frock as it went quietly about,
doing
for the last time the small services which would help
to make its absence keenly felt.

Polly was
to go directly after an early dinner,
and having packed her trunk,
all but one tray,
she was told
to go and take a run while grandma finished.

Polly suspected that some pleasant surprise was going
to be put in;
for Fan did n't offer
to go
with her,
Maud kept dodging about
with something under her apron,
and Tom had just whisked into his mother's room in a mysterious manner.

So Polly took the hint and went away,
rejoicing in the thought of the unknown treasures she was
to carry home.

Mr. Shaw had not said he should come home so early,
but Polly thought he might,
and went
to meet him.

Mr. Shaw did n't expect
to see Polly,
for he had left her very busy,
and now a light snow was falling;
but,
as he turned into the mall there was the round hat,
and under it the bright face,
looking all the rosier
for being powdered
with snow-flakes,
as Polly came running
to meet him.

"There won't be any one
to help the old gentleman safely home to-morrow,"
he said,
as Polly took his hand in both hers
with an affectionate squeeze.

"Yes,
there will;
see if there is n't,"
cried Polly,
nodding and smiling,
for Fan had confided
to her that she meant
to try it after her friend had gone.

"I
'm glad of it.

But,
my dear,
I want you
to promise that you will come and make us a visit every winter,
a good long one,"
said Mr. Shaw,
patting the blue mittens folded round his hand.

"If they can spare me from home,
I
'd love
to come dearly."

"They must lend you
for a little while,
because you do us all good,
and we need you."

"Do I?

I don't see how;
but I
'm glad
to hear you say so,"
cried Polly,
much touched.

"I can't tell you how,
exactly;
but you brought something into my house that makes it warmer and pleasanter,
and won't quite vanish,
I hope,
when you go away,
my child."

Polly had never heard Mr. Shaw speak like that before,
and did n't know what
to say,
she felt so proud and happy at this proof of the truth of her mother's words,
when she said that
"even a little girl could exert an influence,
and do some good in this big,
busy world."

She only gave her friend a grateful look sweeter than any words,
and they went on together,
hand in hand,
through the
"soft-falling snow."

If Polly could have seen what went into that top tray,
she would have been entirely overcome;
for Fanny had told grandma about the poor little presents she had once laughed at,
and they had all laid their heads together
to provide something really fine and appropriate
for every member of the Milton family.

Such a mine of riches! and so much good-will,
affection,
and kindly forethought was packed away in the tempting bundles,
that no one could feel offended,
but would find an unusual charm about the pretty gifts that made them doubly welcome.

I only know that if Polly had suspected that a little watch was ticking away in a little case,
with her name on it,
inside that trunk,
she never could have left it locked as grandma advised,
or have eaten her dinner so quietly.

As it was,
her heart was very full,
and the tears rose
to her eyes more than once,
everyone was so kind,
and so sorry
to have her go.

Tom did n't need any urging
to play escort now;
and both Fan and Maud insisted on going too.

Mrs. Shaw forgot her nerves,
and put up some gingerbread
with her own hands;
Mr. Shaw kissed Polly as if she had been his dearest daughter;
and grandma held her close,
whispering in a tremulous tone,
"My little comfort,
come again soon";
while Katy waved her apron from the nursery window,
crying,
as they drove,
away,
"The saints bless ye,
Miss Polly,
dear,
and sind ye the best of lucks!"
But the crowning joke of all was Tom's good-by,
for,
when Polly was fairly settled in the car,
the last
"All aboard!"
uttered,
and the train in motion,
Tom suddenly produced a knobby little bundle,
and thrusting it in at the window,
while he hung on in some breakneck fashion,
said,
with a droll mixture of fun and feeling in his face,
"It
's horrid;
but you wanted it,
so I put it in
to make you laugh.

Good-by,
Polly;
good-by,
good-by!"
The last adieu was a trifle husky,
and Tom vanished as it was uttered,
leaving Polly
to laugh over his parting souvenir till the tears ran down her cheeks.

It was a paper bag of peanuts,
and poked down at the very bottom a photograph of Tom.

It was
"horrid,"
for he looked as if taken by a flash of lightning,
so black,
wild,
and staring was it;
but Polly liked it,
and whenever she felt a little pensive at parting
with her friends,
she took a peanut,
or a peep at Tom's funny picture,
which made her merry again.

So the short journey came blithely
to an end,
and in the twilight she saw a group of loving faces at the door of a humble little house,
which was more beautiful than any palace in her eyes,
for it was home.

CHAPTER VIII SIX YEARS AFTERWARD
"WHAT do you think Polly is going
to do this winter?"
exclaimed Fanny,
looking up from the letter she had been eagerly reading.

"Going
to deliver lectures on Woman's Rights,"
said the young gentleman who was carefully examining his luxuriant crop of decidedly auburn hair,
as he lounged
with both elbows on the chimney-piece.

"Going
to set her cap
for some young minister and marry him in the spring,"
added Mrs. Shaw,
whose mind ran a good deal upon match-making just now.

"I think she is going
to stay at home,
and do all the work,
'cause servants cost so much;
it would be just like her,"
observed Maud,
who could pronounce the letter R now.

"It
's my opinion she is going
to open a school,
or something of that sort,
to help those brothers of hers along,"
said Mr. Shaw,
who had put down his paper at the sound of Polly's name.

"Every one of you wrong,
though papa comes nearest the truth,"
cried Fanny;
"she is going
to give music lessons,
and support herself,
so that Will may go
to college.

He is the studious one,
and Polly is very proud of him.

Ned,
the other brother,
has a business talent,
and don't care
for books,
so he has gone out West,
and will make his own way anywhere.

Polly says she is n't needed at home now,
the family is so small,
and Kitty can take her place nicely;
so she is actually going
to earn her own living,
and hand over her share of the family income
to Will.

What a martyr that girl does make of herself,"
and Fanny looked as solemn as if Polly had proposed some awful self-sacrifice.

"She is a sensible,
brave-hearted girl,
and I respect her
for doing it,"
said Mr. Shaw,
emphatically.

"One never knows what may happen,
and it does no harm
for young people
to learn
to be independent."

"If she is as pretty as she was last time I saw her,
she
'll get pupils fast enough.

I would n't mind taking lessons myself,"
was the gracious observation of Shaw,
Jr. ,
as he turned from the mirror,
with the soothing certainty that his objectionable hair actually was growing darker.

"She would n't take you at any price,"
said Fanny,
remembering Polly's look of disappointment and disapproval when she came on her last visit and found him an unmistakable dandy.

"You just wait and see,"
was the placid reply.

"If Polly does carry out her plan,
I wish Maud
to take lessons of her;
Fanny can do as she likes,
but it would please me very much
to have one of my girls sing as Polly sings.

It suits old people better than your opera things,
and mother used
to enjoy it so much."

As he spoke,
Mr. Shaw's eye turned toward the comer of the fire where grandma used
to sit.

The easy-chair was empty now,
the kind old face was gone,
and nothing but a very tender memory remained.

"I
'd like
to learn,
papa,
and Polly is a splendid teacher,
I know;
she
's always so patient,
and makes everything so pleasant.

I do hope she will get scholars enough
to begin right away,"
said Maud.

"When is she coming?"
asked Mrs. Shaw,
quite willing
to help Polly,
but privately resolving that Maud should be finished off by the most fashionable master in the city.

"She does n't say.

She thanks me
for asking her here,
as usual,
but says she shall go right
to work and had better begin
with her own little room at once.

Won't it seem strange
to have Polly in town,
and yet not
with us?"
"We
'll get her somehow.

The little room will cost something,
and she can stay
with us just as well as not,
even if she does teach.

Tell her I say so,"
said Mr. Shaw.

"She won't come,
I know;
for if she undertakes
to be independent,
she
'll do it in the most thorough manner,"
answered Fanny,
and Mrs. Shaw sincerely hoped she would.

It was all very well
to patronize the little music-teacher,
but it was not so pleasant
to have her settled in the family.

"I shall do what I can
for her among my friends,
and I dare say she will get on very well
with young pupils
to begin with.

If she starts right,
puts her terms high enough,
and gets a few good names
to give her the entr,e into our first families,
I don't doubt she will do nicely,
for I must say Polly has the manners of a lady,"
observed Mrs. Shaw.

"She
's a mighty taking little body,
and I
'm glad she
's
to be in town,
though I
'd like it better if she did n't bother about teaching,
but just stayed here and enjoyed herself,"
said Tom,
lazily.

"I
've no doubt she would feel highly honored
to be allowed
to devote her time
to your amusement;
but she can't afford expensive luxuries,
and she don't approve of flirting,
so you will have
to let her go her own way,
and refresh herself
with such glimpses of you as her engagements permit,"
answered Fanny,
in the sarcastic tone which was be coming habitual
to her.

"You are getting
to be a regular old maid,
Fan;
as sharp as a lemon,
and twice as sour,"
returned Tom,
looking down at her
with an air of calm superiority.

"Do be quiet,
children;
you know I can't bear anything like contention.

Maud,
give me my Shetland shawl,
and put a cushion at my back."

As Maud obeyed her mother,
with a reproving look at her erring brother and sister,
a pause followed,
for which every one seemed grateful.

They were sitting about the fire after dinner,
and all looked as if a little sunshine would do them good.

It had been a dull November day,
but all of a sudden the clouds lifted,
and a bright ray shot into the room.

Every one turned involuntarily
to welcome it,
and every one cried out,
"Why,
Polly!"
for there on the threshold stood a bright-faced girl,
smiling as if there was no such thing as November weather in the world.

"You dear thing,
when did you come?"
cried Fanny,
kissing both the blooming checks
with real affection,
while the rest hovered near,
waiting
for a chance.

"I came yesterday,
and have been getting my nest in order;
but I could n't keep away any longer,
so I ran up
to say
'How do you do?'
"
answered Polly,
in the cheery voice that did one's heart good
to hear.

"My Polly always brings the sunshine
with her,"
and Mr. Shaw held out his hands
to his little friend,
for she was his favorite still.

It was good
to see her put both arms about his neck,
and give him a tender kiss,
that said a great deal,
for grandma had died since Polly met him last and she longed
to comfort him,
seeing how gray and old he had grown.

If Tom had had any thoughts of following his father's example,
something in Polly's manner made him change his mind,
and shake hands
with a hearty
"I
'm very glad
to see you,
Polly,"
adding
to himself,
as he looked at the face in the modest little bonnet:

"Prettier than ever,
by Jove!"
There was something more than mere prettiness in Polly's face,
though Tom had not learned
to see it yet.

The blue eyes were clear and steady,
the fresh mouth frank and sweet,
the white chin was a very firm one in spite of the dimple,
and the smooth forehead under the little curls had a broad,
benevolent arch;
while all about the face were those unmistakable lines and curves which can make even a plain countenance comely,
by breathing into it the beauty of a lovely character.

Polly had grown up,
but she had no more style now than in the days of the round hat and rough coat,
for she was all in gray,
like a young Quakeress,
with no ornament but a blue bow at the throat and another in the hair.

Yet the plain suit became her excellently,
and one never thought of the dress,
looking at the active figure that wore it,
for the freedom of her childhood gave
to Polly that good gift,
health,
and every movement was full of the vigor,
grace,
and ease,
which nothing else can so surely bestow.

A happy soul in a healthy body is a rare sight in these days,
when doctors flourish and every one is ill,
and this pleasant union was the charm which Polly possessed without knowing it.

"It does seem so good
to have you here again,"
said Maud,
cuddling Polly's cold hand,
as she sat at her feet,
when she was fairly established between Fanny and Mr. Shaw,
while Tom leaned on the back of his mother's chair,
and enjoyed the prospect.

"How do you get on?

When do you begin?

Where is your nest?

Now tell all about it,"
began Fanny,
who was full of curiosity about the new plan.

"I shall get on very well,
I think,
for I
've got twelve scholars
to begin with,
all able
to pay a good price,
and I shall give my first lesson on Monday."

"Don't you dread it?"
asked Fanny.

"Not much;
why should I?"
answered Polly,
stoutly.

"Well,
I don't know;
it
's a new thing,
and must be a little bit hard at first,"
stammered Fanny,
not liking
to say that working
for one's living seemed a dreadful hardship
to her.

"It will be tiresome,
of course,
but I shall get used
to it;
I shall like the exercise,
and the new people and places I must see will amuse me.

Then the independence will be delightful,
and if I can save a little
to help Kitty along with,
that will be best of all."

Polly's face shone as if the prospect was full of pleasure instead of work,
and the hearty good will
with which she undertook the new task,
seemed
to dignify her humble hopes and plans,
and make them interesting in the sight of others.

"Who have you got
for pupils?"
asked Mrs. Shaw,
forgetting her nerves
for a minute.

Polly named her list,
and took a secret satisfaction in seeing the impression which certain names made upon her hearers.

"How in the world did you get the Davenports and the Greys,
my dear?"
said Mrs. Shaw,
sitting erect in her surprise.

"Mrs. Davenport and mother are relations,
you know."

"You never told us that before!"
"The Davenports have been away some years,
and I forgot all about them.

But when I was making my plan,
I knew I must have a good name or two
to set me going,
so I just wrote and asked Mrs. D.

if she would help me.

She came and saw us and was very kind,
and has got these pupils
for me,
like a dear,
good woman as she is."

"Where did you learn so much worldly wisdom,
Polly?"
asked Mr. Shaw,
as his wife fell back in her chair,
and took out her salts,
as if this discovery had been too much
for her.

"I learnt it here,
sir,"
answered Polly,
laughing.

"I used
to think patronage and things of that sort very disagreeable and not worth having,
but I
've got wiser,
and
to a certain extent I
'm glad
to use whatever advantages I have in my power,
if they can be honestly got."

"Why did n't you let us help you in the beginning?

We should have been very glad to,
I
'm sure,"
put in Mrs. Shaw,
who quite burned
to be known as a joint patroness
with Mrs. Davenport.

"I know you would,
but you have all been so kind
to me I did n't want
to trouble you
with my little plans till the first steps were taken.

Besides,
I did n't know as you would like
to recommend me as a teacher,
though you like me well enough as plain Polly."

"My dear,
of course I would,
and we want you
to take Maud at once,
and teach her your sweet songs.

She has a fine voice,
and is really suffering
for a teacher."

A slight smile passed over Polly's face as she returned her thanks
for the new pupil,
for she remembered a time when Mrs. Shaw considered her
"sweet songs"
quite unfit
for a fashionable young lady's repertoire.

"Where is your room?"
asked Maud.

"My old friend Miss Mills has taken me in,
and I am nicely settled.

Mother did n't like the idea of my going
to a strange boarding-house,
so Miss Mills kindly made a place
for me.

You know she lets her rooms without board,
but she is going
to give me my dinners,
and I
'm
to get my own breakfast and tea,
quite independently.

I like that way,
and it
's very little trouble,
my habits are so simple;
a bowl of bread and milk night and morning,
with baked apples or something of that sort,
is all I want,
and I can have it when I like."

"Is your room comfortably furnished?

Can't we lend you anything,
my dear?

An easy-chair now,
or a little couch,
so necessary when one comes in tired,"
said Mrs. Shaw,
taking unusual interest in the affair.

"Thank you,
but I don't need anything,
for I brought all sorts of home comforts
with me.

Oh,
Fan,
you ought
to have seen my triumphal entry into the city,
sitting among my goods and chattels,
in a farmer's cart."

Polly's laugh was so infectious that every one smiled and forgot
to be shocked at her performance.

"Yes,"
she added,
"I kept wishing I could meet you,
just
to see your horrified face when you saw me sitting on my little sofa,
with boxes and bundles all round me,
a bird-cage on one side,
a fishing basket,
with a kitten's head popping in and out of the hole,
on the other side,
and jolly old Mr. Brown,
in his blue frock,
perched on a keg of apples in front.

It was a lovely bright day,
and I enjoyed the ride immensely,
for we had all sorts of adventures."

"Oh,
tell about it,"
begged Maud,
when the general laugh at Polly's picture had subsided.

"Well,
in the first place,
we forgot my ivy,
and Kitty came running after me,
with it.

Then we started again,
but were soon stopped by a great shouting,
and there was Will racing down the hill,
waving a pillow in one hand and a squash pie in the other.

How we did laugh when he came up and explained that our neighbor,
old Mrs. Dodd,
had sent in a hop-pillow
for me,
in case of headache,
and a pie
to begin house-keeping with.

She seemed so disappointed at being too late that Will promised
to get them
to me,
if he ran all the way
to town.

The pillow was easily disposed of,
but that pie! I do believe it was stowed in every part of the wagon,
and never staid anywhere.

I found it in my lap,
then on the floor,
next,
upside down among the books,
then just on the point of coasting off a trunk into the road,
and at last it landed in my rocking-chair.

Such a remarkable pie as it was,
too,
for in spite of all its wanderings,
it never got spilt or broken,
and we finally ate it
for lunch,
in order
to be left in peace.

Next,
my kitty got away,
and I had a chase over walls and brooks before I got her,
while Mr. Brown sat shaking
with fun,
to see me run.

We finished off by having the book-shelves tumble on our heads as we went down a hill,
and losing my chair off behind,
as we went up a hill.

A shout made us pause,
and,
looking back,
there was the poor little chair rocking all by itself in the middle of the road,
while a small boy sat on the fence and whooped.

It was great fun,
I do assure you."

Polly had run on in her lively way,
not because she thought her adventures amounted
to much,
but from a wish
to cheer up her friends,
who had struck her as looking rather dull and out of sorts,
especially Mr. Shaw;
and when she saw him lean back in his chair
with the old hearty laugh,
she was satisfied,
and blessed the unlucky pie
for amusing him.

"Oh,
Polly,
you do tell such interesting things!"
sighed Maud,
wiping her eyes.

"I wish I
'd met you,
I
'd have given you three cheers and a tiger,
for it must have been an imposing spectacle,"
said Tom.

"No,
you would n't;
you
'd have whisked round the comer when you saw me coming or have stared straight before you,
utterly unconscious of the young woman in the baggage wagon."

Polly laughed in his face just as she used
to do,
when she said that,
and,
in spite of the doubt cast upon his courtesy,
Tom rather liked it,
though he had nothing
to say
for himself but a reproachful,
"Now,
Polly,
that
's too bad."

"True,
nevertheless.

You must come and see my pets,
Maud,
for my cat and bird live together as happily as brother and sister,"
said Polly,
turning
to Maud,
who devoured every word she said.

"That
's not saying much
for them,"
muttered Tom,
feeling that Polly ought
to address more of her conversation
to him.

"Polly knows what she
's talking about;
her brothers appreciate their sisters,"
observed Fanny,
in her sharp tone.

"And Polly appreciates her brothers,
don't forget
to add that,
ma'am,"
answered Tom.

"Did I tell you that Will was going
to college?"
broke in Polly,
to avert the rising storm.

"Hope he
'll enjoy himself,"
observed Tom,
with the air of a man who had passed through all the mysteries,
and reached that state of sublime indifference which juniors seem
to pride themselves upon.

"I think he will,
he is so fond of study,
and is so anxious
to improve every opportunity.

I only hope he won't overwork and get sick,
as so many boys do,"
said simple Polly,
with such a respectful belief in the eager thirst
for knowledge of collegians as a class,
that Tom regarded the deluded girl
with a smile of lofty pity,
from the heights of his vast and varied experience.

"Guess he won't hurt himself.

I
'll see that he don't study too hard."

And Tom's eyes twinkled as they used
to do,
when he planned his boyish pranks.

"I
'm afraid you can't be trusted as a guide,
if various rumors I
've heard are true,"
said Polly,
looking up at him
with a wistful expression,
that caused his face
to assume the sobriety of an owl's.

"Base slanders;
I
'm as steady as a clock,
an ornament
to my class,
and a model young man,
ain't I,
mother?"
And Tom patted her thin cheek
with a caressing hand,
sure of one firm friend in her;
for when he ceased
to be a harum-scarum boy,
Mrs. Shaw began
to take great pride in her son,
and he,
missing grandma,
tried
to fill her place
with his feeble mother.

"Yes,
dear,
you are all I could ask,"
and Mrs. Shaw looked up at him
with such affection and confidence in her eyes,
that Polly gave Tom the first approving look she had vouchsafed him since she came.

Why Tom should look troubled and turn grave all at once,
she could n't understand,
but she liked
to see him stroke his mother's cheek so softly,
as he stood
with his head resting on the high back of her chair,
for Polly fancied that he felt a man's pity
for her weakness,
and was learning a son's patient love
for a mother who had had much
to bear
with him.

"I
'm so glad you are going
to be here all winter,
for we are
to be very gay,
and I shall enjoy taking you round
with me,"
began Fanny,
forgetting Polly's plan
for a moment.

Polly shook her head decidedly.

"It sounds very nice,
but it can't be done,
Fan,
for I
've come
to work,
not play;
to save,
not spend;
and parties will be quite out of the question
for me."

"You don't intend
to work all the time,
without a bit of fun,
I hope,"
cried Fanny,
dismayed at the idea.

"I mean
to do what I
've undertaken,
and not
to be tempted away from my purpose by anything.

I should n't be fit
to give lessons if I was up late,
should I?

And how far would my earnings go towards dress,
carriages,
and all the little expenses which would come if I set up
for a young lady in society?

I can't do both,
and I
'm not going
to try,
but I can pick up bits of fun as I go along,
and be contented
with free concerts and lectures,
seeing you pretty often,
and every Sunday Will is
to spend
with me,
so I shall have quite as much dissipation as is good
for me."

"If you don't come
to my parties,
I
'll never forgive you,"
said Fanny,
as Polly paused,
while Tom chuckled inwardly at the idea of calling visits from a brother
"dissipation."

"Any small party,
where it will do
to wear a plain black silk,
I can come to;
but the big ones must n't be thought of,
thank you."

It was charming
to see the resolution of Polly's face when she said that;
for she knew her weakness,
and beyond that black silk she had determined not
to go.

Fanny said no more,
for she felt quite sure that Polly would relent when the time came,
and she planned
to give her a pretty dress
for a Christmas present,
so that one excuse should be removed.

"I say,
Polly,
won't you give some of us fellows music lessons?

Somebody wants me
to play,
and I
'd rather learn of you than any Senor Twankydillo,"
said Tom,
who did n't find the conversation interesting.

"Oh,
yes;
if any of you boys honestly want
to learn,
and will behave yourselves,
I
'll take you;
but I shall charge extra,"
answered Polly,
with a wicked sparkle of the eye,
though her face was quite sober,
and her tone delightfully business-like.

"Why,
Polly,
Tom is n't a boy;
he
's twenty,
and he says I must treat him
with respect.

Besides,
he
's engaged,
and does put on such airs,"
broke in Maud who regarded her brother as a venerable being.

"Who is the little girl?"
asked Polly taking the news as a joke.

"Trix;
why,
did n't you know it?"
answered Maud,
as if it had been an event of national importance.

"No! is it true,
Fan?"
and Polly turned
to her friend
with a face full of surprise,
while Tom struck an imposing attitude,
and affected absence of mind.

"I forgot
to tell you in my last letter;
it
's just out,
and we don't like it very well,"
observed Fanny,
who would have preferred
to be engaged first herself.

"It
's a very nice thing,
and I am perfectly satisfied,"
announced Mrs. Shaw,
rousing from a slight doze.

"Polly looks as if she did n't believe it.

Have n't I the appearance of
'the happiest man alive'?"
asked Tom,
wondering if it could be pity which he saw in the steady eyes fixed on him.

"No,
I don't think you have,"
she said,
slowly.

"How the deuce should a man look,
then?"
cried Tom,
rather nettled at her sober reception of the grand news.

"As if he had learned
to care
for some one a great deal more than
for himself,"
answered Polly,
with sudden color in her cheeks,
and a sudden softening of the voice,
as her eyes turned away from Tom,
who was the picture of a complacent dandy,
from the topmost curl of his auburn head
to the tips of his aristocratic boots.

"Tommy
's quenched;
I agree
with you,
Polly;
I never liked Trix,
and I hope it
's only a boy-and-girl fancy,
that will soon die a natural death,"
said Mr. Shaw,
who seemed
to find it difficult
to help falling into a brown study,
in spite of the lively chatter going on about him.

Shaw,
Jr. ,
being highly incensed at the disrespectful manner in which his engagement was treated,
tried
to assume a superb air of indifference,
and finding that a decided failure,
was about
to stroll out of the room
with a comprehensive nod,
when his mother called after him:

"Where are you going,
dear?"
"To see Trix,
of course.

Good-by,
Polly,"
and Mr. Thomas departed,
hoping that by the skillful change of tone,
from ardent impatience
to condescending coolness,
he had impressed one hearer at least
with the fact that he regarded Trix as the star of his existence,
and Polly as a presuming little chit.

If he could have heard her laugh,
and Fanny's remarks,
his wrath would have boiled over;
fortunately he was spared the trial,
and went away hoping that the coquetries of his Trix would make him forget Polly's look when she answered his question.

"My dear,
that boy is the most deluded creature you ever saw,"
began Fanny,
as soon as the front door banged.

"Belle and Trix both tried
to catch him,
and the slyest got him;
for,
in spite of his airs,
he is as soft-hearted as a baby.

You see Trix has broken off two engagements already,
and the third time she got jilted herself.

Such a fuss as she made! I declare,
it really was absurd.

But I do think she felt it very much,
for she would n't go out at all,
and got thin,
and pale,
and blue,
and was really quite touching.

I pitied her,
and had her here a good deal,
and Tom took her part;
he always does stand up
for the crushed ones,
and that
's good of him,
I allow.

Well,
she did the forsaken very prettily;
let Tom amuse her,
and led him on till the poor fellow lost his wits,
and finding her crying one day
(about her hat,
which was n't becoming),
he thought she was mourning
for Mr. Banks,
and so,
to comfort her,
the goose proposed.

That was all she wanted;
she snapped him up at once,
and there he is in a nice scrape;
for since her engagement she is as gay as ever,
flirts awfully
with any one who comes along,
and keeps Tom in a fume all the time.

I really don't think he cares
for her half as much as he makes believe,
but he
'll stand by her through thick and thin,
rather than do as Banks did."

"Poor Tom!"
was all Polly said,
when Fan had poured the story into her ear,
as they sat whispering in the sofa corner.

"My only consolation is that Trix will break off the affair before spring;
she always does,
so that she may be free
for the summer campaign.

It won't hurt Tom,
but I hate
to have him make a fool of himself out of pity,
for he is more of a man than he seems,
and I don't want any one
to plague him."

"No one but yourself,"
said Polly,
smiling.

"Well,
that
's all fair;
he is a torment sometimes,
but I
'm rather fond of him in spite of it.

I get so tired of the other fellows,
they are such absurd things and when Tom is in his good mood he is very nice and quite refreshing."

"I
'm glad
to hear it,"
said Polly,
making a mental note of the fact.

"Yes,
and when grandma was ill he was perfectly devoted.

I did n't know the boy had so much gentleness in him.

He took her death sadly
to heart,
for,
though he did n't say much,
he was very grave and steady
for a long time.

I tried
to comfort him,
and we had two or three real sweet little talks together,
and seemed
to get acquainted
for the first time.

It was very nice,
but it did n't last;
good times never do
with us.

We soon got back into the old way,
and now we hector one another just as before."

Fanny sighed,
then yawned,
and fell into her usual listless attitude,
as if the brief excitement of Polly's coming had begun
to subside.

"Walk home
with me and see my funny little room.

It
's bright now,
and the air will do you good.

Come,
both of you,
and have a frolic as we used to,"
said Polly,
for the red sunset now burning in the west seemed
to invite them out.

They agreed,
and soon the three were walking briskly away
to Polly's new home,
in a quiet street,
where a few old trees rustled in the summer,
and the morning sun shone pleasantly in winter time.

"The way into my parlor Is up a winding stair."

sang Polly,
running up two flights of broad,
old-fashioned steps,
and opening the door of a back room,
out of which streamed the welcome glow of firelight.

"These are my pets,
Maud,"
she added,
pausing on the threshold,
and beckoning the girls
to look in quietly.

On the rug,
luxuriously basking in the warmth,
lay a gray kitten,
and close by,
meditatively roosting on one leg,
stood a plump canary,
who cocked his bright eye at the new-comers,
gave a loud chirp as if
to wake his comrade,
and then flew straight
to Polly's shoulder,
where he broke into a joyful song
to welcome his mistress home.

"Allow me
to introduce my family,"
said Polly;
"this noisy little chap the boys named Nicodemus;
and this dozy cat is called Ashputtel,
because the joy of her life is
to get among the cinders.

Now,
take off your things,
and let me do the honors,
for you are
to stop
to tea,
and the carriage is
to come
for you at eight.

I arranged it
with your mother while you were up-stairs."

"I want
to see everything,"
said Maud,
when the hats were off,
and the hands warmed.

"So you shall;
for I think my housekeeping arrangements will amuse you."

Then Polly showed her kingdom,
and the three had a merry time over it.

The big piano took up so much room there was no place
for a bed;
but Polly proudly displayed the resources of her chintz-covered couch,
for the back let down,
the seat lifted up,
and inside were all the pillows and blankets.

"So convenient,
you see,
and yet out of the way in the daytime,
for two or three of my pupils come
to me,"
explained Polly.

Then there was a bright drugget over the faded carpet,
the little rocking-chair and sewing-table stood at one window,
the ivy ran all over the other,
and hid the banqueting performances which went on in that corner.

Book-shelves hung over the sofa,
a picture or two on the walls,
and a great vase of autumn leaves and grasses beautified the low chimney-piece.

It was a very humble little room,
but Polly had done her best
to make it pleasant,
and it already had a home-like look,
with the cheery fire,
and the household pets chirping and purring confidingly on the rug.

"How nice it is!"
exclaimed Maud,
as she emerged from the big closet where Polly kept her stores.

"Such a cunning teakettle and saucepan,
and a t^te-.-t^te set,
and lots of good things
to eat.

Do have toast
for tea,
Polly,
and let me make it
with the new toasting fork;
it
's such fun
to play cook."

Fanny was not so enthusiastic as her sister,
for her eyes saw many traces of what seemed like poverty
to her;
but Polly was so gay,
so satisfied
with her small establishment,
so full of happy hopes and plans,
that her friend had not the heart
to find a fault or suggest an improvement,
and sat where she was told,
laughing and talking while the others got tea.

"This will be a country supper,
girls,"
said Polly,
bustling about.

"Here is real cream,
brown bread,
home-made cake,
and honey from my own beehives.

Mother fitted me out
with such a supply,
I
'm glad
to have a party,
for I can't eat it all quick enough.

Butter the toast,
Maudie,
and put that little cover over it.

Tell me when the kettle boils,
and don't step on Nicodemus,
whatever you do."

"What a capital house-keeper you will make some day,"
said Fanny,
as she watched Polly spread her table
with a neatness and despatch which was pleasant
to behold.

"Yes,
it
's good practice,"
laughed Polly,
filling her tiny teapot,
and taking her place behind the tray,
with a matronly air,
which was the best joke of the whole.

"This is the most delicious party I ever went to,"
observed Maud,
with her mouth full of honey,
when the feast was well under way.

"I do wish I could have a nice room like this,
and a cat and a bird that would n't eat each other up,
and a dear little teakettle,
and make just as much toast as I like."

Such a peal of laughter greeted Maud's pensive aspiration,
that Miss Mills smiled over her solitary cup of tea,
and little Nick burst into a perfect ecstasy of song,
as he sat on the sugar-bowl helping himself.

"I don't care
for the toast and the kettle,
but I do envy you your good spirits,
Polly,"
said Fanny,
as the merriment subsided.

"I
'm so tired of everybody and everything,
it seems sometimes as if I should die of ennui.

Don't you ever feel so?"
"Things worry me sometimes,
but I just catch up a broom and sweep,
or wash hard,
or walk,
or go at something
with all my might,
and I usually find that by the time I get through the worry is gone,
or I
've got courage enough
to bear it without grumbling,"
answered Polly,
cutting the brown loaf energetically.

"I can't do those things,
you know;
there
's no need of it,
and I don't think they
'd cure my worrying,"
said Fanny,
languidly feeding Ashputtel,
who sat decorously beside her,
at the table,
winking at the cream pot.

"A little poverty would do you good,
Fan;
just enough necessity
to keep you busy till you find how good work is;
and when you once learn that,
you won't complain of ennui any more,"
returned Polly,
who had taken kindly the hard lesson which twenty years of cheerful poverty had taught her.

"Mercy,
no,
I should hate that;
but I wish some one would invent a new amusement
for rich people.

I
'm dead sick of parties,
and flirtations,
trying
to out-dress my neighbors,
and going the same round year after year,
like a squirrel in a cage."

Fanny's tone was bitter as well as discontented,
her face sad as well as listless,
and Polly had an instinctive feeling that some trouble,
more real than any she had ever known before,
was lying heavy at her friend's heart.

That was not the time
to speak of it,
but Polly resolved
to stand ready
to offer sympathy,
if nothing more,
whenever the confidential minute came;
and her manner was so kind,
so comfortable,
that Fanny felt its silent magic,
grew more cheerful in the quiet atmosphere of that little room,
and when they said good-night,
after an old-time gossip by the fire,
she kissed her hostess warmly,
saying,
with a grateful look,
"Polly,
dear,
I shall come often,
you do me so much good."

CHAPTER IX LESSONS THE first few weeks were hard ones,
for Polly had not yet outgrown her natural shyness and going among so many strangers caused her frequent panics.

But her purpose gave her courage,
and when the ice was once broken,
her little pupils quickly learned
to love her.

The novelty soon wore off,
and though she thought she was prepared
for drudgery,
she found it very tedious
to go on doing the same thing day after day.

Then she was lonely,
for Will could only come once a week,
her leisure hours were Fanny's busiest,
and the
"bits of pleasure"
were so few and far between that they only tantalized her.

Even her small housekeeping lost its charms,
for Polly was a social creature,
and the solitary meals were often sad ones.

Ashputtel and Nick did their best
to cheer her,
but they too,
seemed
to pine
for country freedom and home atmosphere.

Poor Puttel,
after gazing wistfully out of the window at the gaunt city cats skulking about the yard,
would retire
to the rug,
and curl herself up as if all hope of finding congenial society had failed;
while little Nick would sing till he vibrated on his perch,
without receiving any response except an inquisitive chirp from the pert sparrows,
who seemed
to twit him
with his captivity.

Yes,
by the time the little teakettle had lost its brightness,
Polly had decided that getting one's living was no joke,
and many of her brilliant hopes had shared the fate of the little kettle.

If one could only make the sacrifice all at once,
and done
with it,
then it would seem easier;
but
to keep up a daily sacrifice of one's wishes,
tastes,
and pleasures,
is rather a hard task,
especially when one is pretty,
young,
and gay.

Lessons all day,
a highly instructive lecture,
books over a solitary fire,
or music
with no audience but a sleepy cat and a bird
with his head tucked under his wing,
for evening entertainment,
was not exactly what might be called festive;
so,
in spite of her brave resolutions,
Polly did long
for a little fun sometimes,
and after saying virtuously
to herself at nine:

"Yes,
it is much wiser and better
for me
to go
to bed early,
and be ready
for work tomorrow,"
she would lie awake hearing the carriages roll
to and fro,
and imagining the gay girls inside,
going
to party,
opera,
or play,
till Mrs. Dodd's hop pillow might as well have been stuffed
with nettles,
for any sleep it brought,
or any use it was,
except
to catch and hide the tears that dropped on it when Polly's heart was very full.

Another thorn that wounded our Polly in her first attempt
to make her way through the thicket that always bars a woman's progress,
was the discovery that working
for a living shuts a good many doors in one's face even in democratic America.

As Fanny's guest she had been,
in spite of poverty,
kindly received wherever her friend took her,
both as child and woman.

Now,
things were changed;
the kindly people patronized,
the careless forgot all about her,
and even Fanny,
with all her affection,
felt that Polly the music teacher would not be welcome in many places where Polly the young lady had been accepted as
"Miss Shaw's friend."

Some of the girls still nodded amiably,
but never invited her
to visit them;
others merely dropped their eyelids,
and went by without speaking,
while a good many ignored her as entirely as if she had been invisible.

These things hurt Polly more than she would confess,
for at home every one worked,
and every one was respected
for it.

She tried not
to care,
but girls feel little slights keenly,
and more than once Polly was severely tempted
to give up her plan,
and run away
to the safe shelter at home.

Fanny never failed
to ask her
to every sort of festivity in the Shaw mansion;
but after a few trials,
Polly firmly declined everything but informal visits when the family were alone.

She soon found that even the new black silk was n't fine enough
for Fanny's smallest party,
and,
after receiving a few of the expressive glances by which women convey their opinion of their neighbor's toilet,
and overhearing a joke or two
"about that inevitable dress,"
and
"the little blackbird,"
Polly folded away the once treasured frock,
saying,
with a choke in her voice:

"I
'll wear it
for Will,
he likes it,
and clothes can't change his love
for me."

I am afraid the wholesome sweetness of Polly's nature was getting a little soured by these troubles;
but before lasting harm was done,
she received,
from an unexpected source,
some of the real help which teaches young people how
to bear these small crosses,
by showing them the heavier ones they have escaped,
and by giving them an idea of the higher pleasures one may earn in the good,
old-fashioned ways that keep hearts sweet,
heads sane,
hands busy.

Everybody has their days of misfortune like little Rosamond,
and Polly was beginning
to think she had more than her share.

One of these ended in a way which influenced her whole life,
and so we will record it.

It began early;
for the hard-hearted little grate would n't behave itself till she had used up a ruinous quantity of kindlings.

Then she scalded poor Puttel by upsetting her coffee-pot;
and instead of a leisurely,
cosy meal,
had
to hurry away uncomfortably,
for everything went wrong even
to the coming off of both bonnet strings in the last dreadful scramble.

Being late,
she of course forgot her music,
and hurrying back
for it,
fell into a puddle,
which capped the climax of her despair.

Such a trying morning as that was! Polly felt out of tune herself,
and all the pianos seemed
to need a tuner as much as she did.

The pupils were unusually stupid,
and two of them announced that their mamma was going
to take them
to the South,
whither she was suddenly called.

This was a blow,
for they had just begun,
and Polly had n't the face
to send in a bill
for a whole quarter,
though her plans and calculations were sadly disturbed by the failure of that sum.

Trudging home
to dinner,
tired and disappointed,
poor Polly received another blow,
which hurt her more than the loss of all her pupils.

As she went hurrying along
with a big music book in one hand and a paper bag of rolls
for tea in the other,
she saw Tom and Trix coming.

As she watched them while they slowly approached,
looking so gay and handsome and happy,
it seemed
to Polly as if all the sunshine and good walking was on their side of the street,
all the wintry wind and mud on hers.

Longing
to see a friendly face and receive a kind word,
she crossed over,
meaning
to nod and smile at least.

Trix saw her first,
and suddenly became absorbed in the distant horizon.

Tom apparently did not see her,
for his eyes were fixed on a fine horse just prancing by.

Polly thought that he had seen her,
and approached
with a curious little flutter at her heart,
for if Tom cut her she felt that her cup would be full.

On they came,
Trix intent on the view,
Tom staring at the handsome horse,
and Polly,
with red checks,
expectant eyes,
and the brown bundle,
in full sight.

One dreadful minute as they came parallel,
and no one spoke or bowed,
then it was all over,
and Polly went on,
feeling as if some one had slapped her in the face.

"She would n't have believed it of Tom;
it was all the doings of that horrid Trix;
well,
she would n't trouble him any more,
if he was such a snob as
to be ashamed of her just because she carried bundles and worked
for her bread."

She clutched the paper bag fiercely as she said this
to herself,
then her eyes filled,
and her lips trembled,
as she added,
"How could he do it,
before her,
too?"
Now Tom was quite guiltless of this offence,
and had always nodded
to Polly when they met;
but it so happened he had always been alone till now,
and that was why it cut so deeply,
especially as Polly never had approved of Trix.

Before she could clear her eyes or steady her face,
a gentleman met her,
lifted his hat,
smiled,
and said pleasantly,
"Good morning,
Miss Polly,
I
'm glad
to meet you."

Then,
with a sudden change of voice and manner,
he added,
"I beg pardon is anything the matter can I be of service?"
It was very awkward,
but it could n't be helped,
and all Polly could do was
to tell the truth and make the best of it.

"It
's very silly,
but it hurts me
to be cut by my old friends.

I shall get used
to it presently,
I dare say."

Mr. Sydney glanced back,
recognized the couple behind them,
and turned round
with a disgusted expression.

Polly was fumbling
for her handkerchief,
and without a word he took both book and bundle from her,
a little bit of kindness that meant a good deal just then.

Polly felt it,
and it did her good;
hastily wiping the traitorous eyes,
she laughed and said cheerfully,
"There,
I
'm all right again;
thank you,
don't trouble yourself
with my parcels."

"No trouble,
I assure you,
and this book reminds me of what I was about
to say.

Have you an hour
to spare
for my little niece?

Her mother wants her
to begin,
and desired me
to make the inquiry."

"Did she,
really?"
and Polly looked up at him,
as if she suspected him of inventing the whole thing,
out of kindness.

Mr. Sydney smiled,
and taking a note from his pocket,
presented it,
saying,
with a reproachful look,
"Behold the proof of my truth,
and never doubt again."

Polly begged pardon,
read the note from the little girl's mother,
which was
to have been left at her room if she was absent,
and gave the bearer a very grateful look as she accepted this welcome addition
to her pupils.

Well pleased at the success of his mission,
Sydney artfully led the conversation
to music,
and
for a time Polly forgot her woes,
talking enthusiastically on her favorite theme.

As she reclaimed her book and bag,
at her own door,
she said,
in her honest way,
"Thank you very much
for trying
to make me forget my foolish little troubles."

"Then let me say one thing more;
though appearances are against him,
I don't believe Tom Shaw saw you.

Miss Trix is equal
to that sort of thing,
but it is n't like Tom,
for
with all his foppery he is a good fellow at heart."

As Mr. Sydney said this,
Polly held out her hand
with a hearty
"Thank you
for that."

The young man shook the little hand in the gray woollen glove,
gave her exactly the same bow which he did the Honorable Mrs. Davenport,
and went away,
leaving Polly
to walk up stairs and address Puttel
with the peculiar remark,
"You are a true gentleman! so kind
to say that about Tom.

I
'll think it
's so,
anyway;
and won't I teach Minnie in my very best style!"
Puttel purred,
Nick chirped approvingly,
and Polly ate her dinner
with a better appetite than she had expected.

But at the bottom of her heart there was a sore spot still,
and the afternoon lessons dragged dismally.

It was dusk when she got home,
and as she sat in the firelight eating her bread and milk,
several tears bedewed the little rolls,
and even the home honey had a bitter taste.

"Now this won't do,"
she broke out all at once;
"this is silly and wicked,
and can't be allowed.

I
'll try the old plan and put myself right by doing some little kindness
to somebody.

Now what shall it be?

O,
I know! Fan is going
to a party to-night;
I
'll run up and help her dress;
she likes
to have me,
and I enjoy seeing the pretty things.

Yes,
and I
'll take her two or three clusters of my daphne,
it
's so sweet."

Up got Polly,
and taking her little posy,
trotted away
to the Shaws',
determined
to be happy and contented in spite of Trix and hard work.

She found Fanny enduring torment under the hands of the hair-dresser,
who was doing his best
to spoil her hair,
and distort her head
with a mass of curls,
braids,
frizzles,
and puffs;
for though I discreetly refrain from any particular description,
still,
judging from the present fashions,
I think one may venture
to predict that six years hence they would be something frightful.

"How kind of you,
Polly;
I was just wishing you were here
to arrange my flowers.

These lovely daphnes will give odor
to my camellias,
and you were a dear
to bring them.

There
's my dress;
how do you like it?"
said Fanny,
hardly daring
to lift her eyes from under the yellow tower on her head.

"It
's regularly splendid;
but how do you ever get into it?"
answered Polly,
surveying
with girlish interest the cloud of pink and white lace that lay upon the bed.

"It
's fearfully and wonderfully made,
but distractingly becoming,
as you shall see.

Trix thinks I
'm going
to wear blue,
so she has got a green one,
and told Belle it would spoil the effect of mine,
as we are much together,
of course.

Was n't that sweet of her?

Belle came and told me in,
time,
and I just got pink,
so my amiable sister,
that is
to be,
won't succeed in her pretty little plot."

"I guess she has been reading the life of Josephine.

You know she made a pretty lady,
of whom she was jealous,
sit beside her on a green sofa,
which set off her own white dress and spoilt the blue one of her guest,"
answered Polly,
busy
with the flowers.

"Trix never reads anything;
you are the one
to pick up clever little stories.

I
'll remember and use this one.

Am I done?

Yes,
that is charming,
is n't it,
Polly?"
and Fan rose
to inspect the success of Monsieur's long labor.

"You know I don't appreciate a stylish coiffure as I ought,
so I like your hair in the old way best.

But this is
'the thing,'
I suppose,
and not a word must be said."

"Of course it is.

Why,
child,
I have frizzed and burnt my hair so that I look like an old maniac
with it in its natural state,
and have
to repair damages as well as I can.

Now put the flowers just here,"
and Fanny laid a pink camellia in a nest of fuzz,
and stuck a spray of daphne straight up at the back of her head.

"O,
Fan,
don't,
it looks horridly so!"
cried Polly,
longing
to add a little beauty
to her friend's sallow face by a graceful adjustment of the flowers.

"Can't help it,
that
's the way,
and so it must be,"
answered Fan,
planting another sprig half-way up the tower.

Polly groaned and offered no more suggestions as the work went on;
but when Fan was finished from top
to toe,
she admired all she honestly could,
and tried
to keep her thoughts
to herself.

But her frank face betrayed her,
for Fanny turned on her suddenly,
saying,
"You may as well free your mind,
Polly,
for I see by your eyes that something don't suit."

"I was only thinking of what grandma once said,
that modesty had gone out of fashion,"
answered Polly,
glancing at the waist of her friend's dress,
which consisted of a belt,
a bit of lace,
and a pair of shoulder straps.

Fanny laughed good-naturedly,
saying,
as she clasped her necklace,
"If I had such shoulders as yours,
I should n't care what the fashion was.

Now don't preach,
but put my cloak on nicely,
and come along,
for I
'm
to meet Tom and Trix,
and promised
to be there early."

Polly was
to be left at home after depositing Fan at Belle's.

"I feel as if I was going myself,"
she said,
as they rolled along.

"I wish you were,
and you would be,
Polly,
if you weren't such a resolute thing.

I
've teased,
and begged,
and offered anything I have if you
'll only break your absurd vow,
and come and enjoy yourself."

"Thank you;
but I won't,
so don't trouble your kind heart about me;
I
'm all right,"
said Polly,
stoutly.

But when they drew up before the lighted house,
and she found herself in the midst of the pleasant stir of festivity,
the coming and going of carriages,
the glimpses of bright colors,
forms,
and faces,
the bursts of music,
and a general atmosphere of gayety,
Polly felt that she was n't all right,
and as she drove away
for a dull evening in her lonely little room,
she just cried as heartily as any child denied a stick of candy.

"It
's dreadful wicked of me,
but I can't help it,"
she sobbed
to herself,
in the corner of the carriage.

"That music sets me all in a twitter,
and I should have looked nice in Fan's blue tarlatan,
and I know I could behave as well as any one,
and have lots of partners,
though I
'm not in that set.

Oh,
just one good gallop
with Mr. Sydney or Tom! No,
Tom would n't ask me there,
and I would n't accept if he did.

Oh,
me! oh,
me! I wish I was as old and homely,
and good and happy,
as Miss Mills!"
So Polly made her moan,
and by the time she got home,
was just in the mood
to go
to bed and cry herself
to sleep,
as girls have a way of doing when their small affliction becomes unbearable.

But Polly did n't get a chance
to be miserable very long,
for as she went up stairs feeling like the most injured girl in the world,
she caught a glimpse of Miss Mills,
sewing away
with such a bright face that she could n't resist stopping
for a word or two.

"Sit down,
my dear,
I
'm glad
to see you,
but excuse me if I go on
with my work,
as I
'm in a driving hurry
to get these things done to-night,"
said the brisk little lady,
with a smile and a nod,
as she took a new needleful of thread,
and ran up a seam as if
for a wager.

"Let me help you,
then;
I
'm lazy and cross,
and it will do me good,"
said Polly,
sitting down
with the resigned feeling.

"Well,
if I can't be happy,
I can be useful,
perhaps."

"Thank you,
my dear;
yes,
you can just hem the skirt while I put in the sleeves,
and that will be a great lift."

Polly put on her thimble in silence,
but as Miss Mills spread the white flannel over her lap,
she exclaimed,
"Why,
it looks like a shroud! Is it one?"
"No,
dear,
thank God,
it is n't,
but it might have been,
if we had n't saved the poor little soul,"
cried Miss Mills,
with a sudden brightening of the face,
which made it beautiful in spite of the stiff gray curl that bobbed on each temple,
the want of teeth,
and a crooked nose.

"Will you tell me about it?

I like
to hear your adventures and good works so much,"
said Polly,
ready
to be amused by anything that made her forget herself.

"Ah,
my dear,
it
's a very common story,
and that
's the saddest part of it.

I
'll tell you all about it,
for I think you may be able
to help me.

Last night I watched
with poor Mary Floyd.

She
's dying of consumption,
you know,"
began Miss Mills,
as her nimble fingers flew,
and her kind old face beamed over the work,
as if she put a blessing in
with every stitch.

"Mary was very low,
but about midnight fell asleep,
and I was trying
to keep things quiet,
when Mrs. Finn she
's the woman of the house came and beckoned me out,
with a scared face.

'Little Jane has killed herself,
and I don't know what
to do,'
she said,
leading me up
to the attic."

"Who was little Jane?"
broke in Polly,
dropping her work.

"I only knew her as a pale,
shy young girl who went in and out,
and seldom spoke
to any one.

Mrs. Finn told me she was poor,
but a busy,
honest,
little thing,
who did n't mix
with the other folks,
but lived and worked alone.

'She has looked so down-hearted and pale
for a week,
that I thought she was sick,
and asked her about it,'
said Mrs. Finn,
'but she thanked me in her bashful way,
and said she was pretty well,
so I let her alone.

But to-night,
as I went up late
to bed,
I was kind of impressed
to look in and see how the poor thing did,
for she had n't left her room all day.

I did look in,
and here
's what I found.'

As Mrs. Finn ended she opened the door of the back attic,
and I saw about as sad a sight as these old eyes ever looked at."

"O,
what?"
cried Polly,
pale now
with interest.

"A bare room,
cold as a barn,
and on the bed a little dead,
white face that almost broke my heart,
it was so thin,
so patient,
and so young.

On the table was a bottle half full of laudanum,
an old pocket-book,
and a letter.

Read that,
my dear and don't think hard of little Jane."

Polly took the bit of paper Miss Mills gave her,
and read these words:

DEAR MRS. FINN,
Please forgive me
for the trouble I make you,
but I don't see any other way.

I can't get work that pays enough
to keep me;
the Dr. says I can't be well unless I rest.

I hate
to be a burden,
so I
'm going away not
to trouble anybody anymore.

I
've sold my things
to pay what I owe you.

Please let me be as I am,
and don't let people come and look at me.

I hope it is n't very wicked,
but there don't seem any room
for me in the world,
and I
'm not afraid
to die now,
though I should be if I stayed and got bad because I had n't strength
to keep right.

Give my love
to the baby,
and so good-by,
good-by.

JANE BRYANT.

"O,
Miss Mills,
how dreadful!"
cried Polly,
with her eyes so full she could hardly read the little letter.

"Not so dreadful as it might have been,
but a bitter,
sad thing
to see that child,
only seventeen,
lying there in her little clean,
old night-gown,
waiting
for death
to come and take her,
because
'there did n't seem
to be any room
for her in the world.'

Ah,
well,
we saved her,
for it was n't too late,
thank heaven,
and the first thing she said was,
'Oh,
why did you bring me back?'
I
've been nursing her all day,
hearing her story,
and trying
to show her that there is room and a welcome
for her.

Her mother died a year ago,
and since then she has been struggling along alone.

She is one of the timid,
innocent,
humble creatures who can't push their way,
and so get put aside and forgotten.

She has tried all sorts of poorly paid work,
could n't live on it decently,
got discouraged,
sick,
frightened,
and could see no refuge from the big,
bad world but
to get out of it while she was n't afraid
to die.

A very old story,
my dear,
new and dreadful as it seems
to you,
and I think it won't do you any harm
to see and help this little girl,
who has gone through dark places that you are never like
to know."

"I will;
indeed,
I will do all I can! Where is she now?"
asked Polly,
touched
to the heart by the story,
so simple yet so sad.

"There,"
and Miss Mills pointed
to the door of her own little bedroom.

"She was well enough
to be moved to-night,
so I brought her home and laid her safely in my bed.

Poor little soul! she looked about her
for a minute,
then the lost look went away,
and she gave a great sigh,
and took my hand in both her thin bits of ones,
and said,
'O,
ma'am,
I feel as if I
'd been born into a new world.

Help me
to begin again,
and I
'll do better.'

So I told her she was my child now,
and might rest here,
sure of a home as long as I had one."

As Miss Mills spoke in her motherly tone,
and cast a proud and happy look toward the warm and quiet nest in which she had sheltered this friendless little sparrow,
feeling sure that God meant her
to keep it from falling
to the ground,
Polly put both arms about her neck,
and kissed her withered cheek
with as much loving reverence as if she had been a splendid saint,
for in the likeness of this plain old maid she saw the lovely charity that blesses and saves the world.

"How good you are! Dear Miss Mills,
tell me what
to do,
let me help you,
I
'm ready
for anything,"
said Polly,
very humbly,
for her own troubles looked so small and foolish beside the stern hardships which had nearly had so tragical an end,
that she felt heartily ashamed of herself,
and quite burned
to atone
for them.

Miss,
Mills stopped
to stroke the fresh cheek opposite,
to smile,
and say,
"Then,
Polly,
I think I
'll ask you
to go in and say a friendly word
to my little girl.

The sight of you will do her good;
and you have just the right way of comforting people,
without making a fuss."

"Have I?"
said Polly,
looking much gratified by the words.

"Yes,
dear,
you
've the gift of sympathy,
and the rare art of showing it without offending.

I would n't let many girls in
to see my poor Jenny,
because they
'd only flutter and worry her;
but you
'll know what
to do;
so go,
and take this wrapper
with you;
it
's done now,
thanks
to your nimble fingers."

Polly threw the warm garment over her arm,
feeling a thrill of gratitude that it was
to wrap a living girl in,
and not
to hide away a young heart that had grown cold too soon.

Pushing open the door,
she went quietly into the dimly lighted room,
and on the pillow saw a face that drew her
to it
with an irresistible power,
for it was touched by a solemn shadow that made its youth pathetic.

As she paused at the bedside,
thinking the girl asleep,
a pair of hollow,
dark eyes opened wide,
and looked up at her;
startled at first,
then softening
with pleasure,
at sight of the bonny face before them,
and then a humble,
beseeching expression filled them,
as if asking pardon
for the rash act nearly committed,
and pity
for the hard fate that prompted it.

Polly read the language of these eyes,
and answered their mute prayer
with a simple eloquence that said more than any words
for she just stooped down and kissed the poor child,
with her own eyes full,
and lips that trembled
with the sympathy she could not tell.

Jenny put both arms about her neck,
and began
to shed the quiet tears that so refresh and comfort heavy hearts when a tender touch unseals the fountain where they lie.

"Everybody is so kind,"
she sobbed,"
and I was so wicked,
I don't deserve it."

"Oh,
yes,
you do;
don't think of that,
but rest and let us pet you.

The old life was too hard
for such a little thing as you,
and we are going
to try and make the new one ever so much easier and happier,"
said Polly,
forgetting everything except that this was a girl like herself,
who needed heartening up.

"Do you live here?"
asked Jenny,
when her tears were wiped away,
still clinging
to the new-found friend.

"Yes,
Miss Mills lets me have a little room up stairs,
and there I have my cat and bird,
my piano and my posy pots,
and live like a queen.

You must come up and see me to-morrow if you are able.

I
'm often lonely,
for there are no young people in the house
to play
with me,"
answered Polly,
smiling hospitably.

"Do you sew?"
asked Jenny.

"No,
I
'm a music teacher,
and trot round giving lessons all day."

"How beautiful it sounds,
and how happy you must be,
so strong and pretty,
and able
to go round making music all the time,"
sighed Jenny,
looking
with respectful admiration at the plump,
firm hand held in both her thin and feeble ones.

It did sound pleasant even
to Polly's ears,
and she felt suddenly so rich,
and so contented,
that she seemed a different creature from the silly girl who cried because she could n't go
to the party.

It passed through her mind like a flash,
the contrast between her life,
and that of the wan creature lying before her,
and she felt as if she could not give enough out of her abundance
to this needy little sister,
who had nothing in the wide world but the life just saved
to her.

That minute did more
for Polly than many sermons,
or the wisest books,
for it brought her face
to face
with bitter truths,
showed her the dark side of life,
and seemed
to blow away her little vanities,
her frivolous desires,
like a wintry wind,
that left a wholesome atmosphere behind.

Sitting on the bedside,
Polly listened while Jane told the story,
which was so new
to her listener,
that every word sank deep into her heart,
and never was forgotten.

"Now you must go
to sleep.

Don't cry nor think,
nor do anything but rest.

That will please Miss Mills best.

I
'll leave the doors open,
and play you a lullaby that you can't resist.

Good night,
dear."

And
with another kiss,
Polly went away
to sit in the darkness of her own room,
playing her softest airs till the tired eyes below were shut,
and little Jane seemed
to float away on a sea of pleasant sounds,
into the happier life which had just dawned
for her.

Polly had fully intended
to be very miserable,
and cry herself
to sleep;
but when she lay down at last,
her pillow seemed very soft,
her little room very lovely,
with the fire-light flickering on all the home-like objects,
and her new-blown roses breathing her a sweet good-night.

She no longer felt an injured,
hard-working,
unhappy Polly,
but as if quite burdened
with blessings,
for which she was n't half grateful enough.

She had heard of poverty and suffering,
in the vague,
far-off way,
which is all that many girls,
safe in happy homes,
ever know of it;
but now she had seen it,
in a shape which she could feel and understand,
and life grew more earnest
to her from that minute.

So much
to do in the great,
busy world,
and she had done so little.

Where should she begin?

Then,
like an answer came little Jenny's words,
now taking a,'new significance'
to Polly's mind,
"To be strong,
and beautiful,
and go round making music all the time."

Yes,
she could do that;
and
with a very earnest prayer,
Polly asked
for the strength of an upright soul,
the beauty of a tender heart,
the power
to make her life a sweet and stirring song,
helpful while it lasted,
remembered when it died.

Little Jane's last thought had been
to wish
with all her might,
that
"God would bless the dear,
kind girl up there,
and give her all she asked."

I think both prayers,
although too humble
to be put in words,
went up together,
for in the fulness of time they were beautifully answered.

CHAPTER X BROTHERS AND SISTERS POLLY'S happiest day was Sunday,
for Will never failed
to spend it
with her.

Instead of sleeping later than usual that morning,
she was always up bright and early,
flying round
to get ready
for her guest,
for Will came
to breakfast,
and they made a long day of it.

Will considered his sister the best and prettiest girl going,
and Polly,
knowing well that a time would come when he would find a better and a prettier,
was grateful
for his good opinion,
and tried
to deserve it.

So she made her room and herself as neat and inviting as possible,
and always ran
to meet him
with a bright face and a motherly greeting,
when he came tramping in,
ruddy,
brisk,
and beaming,
with the brown loaf and the little pot of beans from the bake-house near by.

They liked a good country breakfast,
and nothing gave Polly more satisfaction than
to see her big boy clear the dishes,
empty the little coffee-pot,
and then sit and laugh at her across the ravaged table.

Another pleasure was
to let him help clear away,
as they used
to do at home,
while the peals of laughter that always accompanied this performance did Miss Mills'
heart good
to hear,
for the room was so small and Will so big that he seemed
to be everywhere at once,
and Polly and Puttel were continually dodging his long arms and legs.

Then they used
to inspect the flower pots,
pay Nick a visit,
and have a little music as a good beginning
for the day,
after which they went
to church and dined
with Miss Mills,
who considered Will
"an excellent young man."

If the afternoon was fair,
they took a long walk together over the bridges into the country,
or about the city streets full of Sabbath quietude.

Most people meeting them would have seen only an awkward young man,
with a boy's face atop of his tall body,
and a quietly dressed,
fresh faced little woman hanging on his arm;
but a few people,
with eyes
to read romances and pleasant histories everywhere,
found something very attractive in this couple,
and smiled as they passed,
wondering if they were young,
lovers,
or country cousins
"looking round."

If the day was stormy,
they stayed at home,
reading,
writing letters,
talking over their affairs,
and giving each other good advice;
for,
though Will was nearly three years younger than Polly,
he could n't
for the life of him help assuming amusingly venerable airs,
when he became a Freshman.

In the twilight he had a good lounge on the sofa,
and Polly sung
to him,
which arrangement he particularly enjoyed,
it was so
"cosy and homey."

At nine o'clock,
Polly packed his bag
with clean clothes,
nicely mended,
such remnants of the festive tea as were transportable,
and kissed him
"good-night,"
with many injunctions
to muffle up his throat going over the bridge,
and be sure that his feet were dry and warm when he went
to bed.

All of which Will laughed at,
accepted graciously,
and did n't obey;
but he liked it,
and trudged away
for another week's work,
rested,
cheered,
and strengthened by that quiet,
happy day
with Polly,
for he had been brought up
to believe in home influences,
and this brother and sister loved one another dearly,
and were not ashamed
to own it.

One other person enjoyed the humble pleasures of these Sundays quite as much as Polly and Will.

Maud used
to beg
to come
to tea,
and Polly,
glad
to do anything
for those who had done a good deal
for her,
made a point of calling
for the little girl as they came home from their walk,
or sending Will
to escort her in the carriage,
which Maud always managed
to secure if bad weather threatened
to quench her hopes.

Tom and Fanny laughed at her fancy,
but she did not tire of it,
for the child was lonely,
and found something in that little room which the great house could not give her.

Maud was twelve now;
a pale,
plain child,
with sharp,
intelligent eyes,
and a busy little mind,
that did a good deal more thinking than anybody imagined.

She was just at the unattractive,
fidgety age when no one knew what
to do
with her,
and so let her fumble her way up as she could,
finding pleasure in odd things,
and living much alone,
for she did not go
to school,
because her shoulders were growing round,
and Mrs. Shaw would not
"allow her figure
to be spoiled."

That suited Maud excellently;
and whenever her father spoke of sending her again,
or getting a governess,
she was seized
with bad headaches,
a pain in her back,
or weakness of the eyes,
at which Mr. Shaw laughed,
but let her holiday go on.

Nobody seemed
to care much
for plain,
pug-nosed little Maudie;
her father was busy,
her mother nervous and sick,
Fanny absorbed in her own affairs,
and Tom regarded her as most young men do their younger sisters,
as a person born
for his amusement and convenience,
nothing more.

Maud admired Tom
with all her heart,
and made a little slave of herself
to him,
feeling well repaid if he merely said,
"Thank you,
chicken,"
or did n't pinch her nose,
or nip her ear,
as he had a way of doing,
"just as if I was a doll,
or a dog,
and had n't got any feelings,"
she sometimes said
to Fanny,
when some service or sacrifice had been accepted without gratitude or respect.

It never occurred
to Tom,
when Maud sat watching him
with her face full of wistfulness,
that she wanted
to be petted as much as ever he did in his neglected boyhood,
or that when he called her
"Pug"
before people,
her little feelings were as deeply wounded as his used
to be,
when the boys called him
"Carrots."

He was fond of her in his fashion,
but he did n't take the trouble
to show it,
so Maud worshipped him afar off,
afraid
to betray the affection that no rebuff could kill or cool.

One snowy Sunday afternoon Tom lay on the sofa in his favorite attitude,
reading
"Pendennis"
for the fourth time,
and smoking like a chimney as he did so.

Maud stood at the window watching the falling flakes
with an anxious countenance,
and presently a great sigh broke from her.

"Don't do that again,
chicken,
or you
'll blow me away.

What's the matter?"
asked Tom,
throwing down his book
with a yawn that threatened dislocation.

"I
'm afraid I can't go
to Polly's,"
answered Maud,
disconsolately.

"Of course you can't;
it
's snowing hard,
and father won't be home
with the carriage till this evening.

What are you always cutting off
to Polly's for?"
"I like it;
we have such nice times,
and Will is there,
and we bake little johnny-cakes in the baker before the fire,
and they sing,
and it is so pleasant."

"Warbling johnny-cakes must be interesting.

Come and tell me all about it."

"No,
you
'll only laugh at me."

"I give you my word I won't,
if I can help it;
but I really am dying of curiosity
to know what you do down there.

You like
to hear secrets,
so tell me yours,
and I
'll be as dumb as an oyster."

"It is n't a secret,
and you would n't care
for it.

Do you want another pillow?"
she added,
as Tom gave his a thump.

"This will do;
but why you women always stick tassels and fringe all over a sofa-cushion,
to tease and tickle a fellow,
is what I don't understand."

"One thing that Polly does Sunday nights,
is
to take Will's head in her lap,
and smooth his forehead.

It rests him after studying so hard,
she says.

If you don't like the pillow,
I could do that
for you,
'cause you look as if you were more tired of studying than Will,"
said Maud,
with some hesitation,
but an evident desire
to be useful and agreeable.

"Well,
I don't care if you do try it,
for I am confoundedly tired."

And Tom laughed,
as he recalled the frolic he had been on the night before.

Maud established herself
with great satisfaction,
and Tom owned that a silk apron was nicer than a fuzzy cushion.

"Do you like it?"
she asked,
after a few strokes over the hot forehead,
which she thought was fevered by intense application
to Greek and Latin.

"Not bad;
play away,"
was the gracious reply,
as Tom shut his eyes,
and lay so still that Maud was charmed at the success of her attempt.

Presently,
she said,
softly,
"Tom,
are you asleep?"
"Just turning the comer."

"Before you get quite round would you please tell me what a Public Admonition is?"
"What do you want
to know for?"
demanded Tom,
opening his eyes very wide.

"I heard Will talking about Publics and Privates,
and I meant
to ask him,
but I forgot."

"What did he say?"
"I don't remember;
it was about somebody who cut prayers,
and got a Private,
and had done all sorts of bad things,
and had one or two Publics.

I did n't hear the name and did n't care;
I only wanted
to know what the words meant."

"So Will tells tales,
does he?"
and Tom's forehead wrinkled
with a frown.

"No,
he did n't;
Polly knew about it and asked him."

"Will's a
'dig,'"
growled Tom,
shutting his eyes again,
as if nothing more could be said of the delinquent William.

"I don't care if he is;
I like him very much,
and so does Polly."

"Happy Fresh!"
said Tom,
with a comical groan.

"You need n't sniff at him,
for he is nice,
and treats me
with respect,"
cried Maud,
with an energy that made Tom laugh in her face.

"He
's good
to Polly always,
and puts on her cloak
for her,
and says
'my dear,'
and kisses her
'goodnight,'
and don't think it
's silly,
and I wish I had a brother just like him,
yes,
I do!"
And Maud showed signs of woe,
for her disappointment about going was very great.

"Bless my boots! what's the chicken ruffling up her little feathers and pecking at me for?

Is that the way Polly soothes the best of brothers?"
said Tom,
still laughing.

"Oh,
I forgot! there,
I won't cry;
but I do want
to go,"
and Maud swallowed her tears,
and began
to stroke again.

Now Tom's horse and sleigh were in the stable,
for he meant
to drive out
to College that evening,
but he did n't take Maud's hint.

It was less trouble
to lie still,
and say in a conciliatory tone,
"Tell me some more about this good boy,
it
's very interesting."

"No,
I shan't,
but I
'll tell about Puttel's playing on the piano,"
said Maud,
anxious
to efface the memory of her momentary weakness.

"Polly points
to the right key
with a little stick,
and Puttel sits on the stool and pats each key as it
's touched,
and it makes a tune.

It
's so funny
to see her,
and Nick perches on the rack and sings as if he
'd kill himself."

"Very thrilling,"
said Tom,
in a sleepy tone.

Maud felt that her conversation was not as interesting as she hoped,
and tried again.

"Polly thinks you are handsomer than Mr. Sydney."

"Much obliged."

"I asked which she thought had the nicest face,
and she said yours was the handsomest,
and his the best."

"Does he ever go there?"
asked a sharp voice behind them;
and looking round Maud saw Fanny in the big chair,
cooking her feet over the register.

"I never saw him there;
he sent up some books one day,
and Will teased her about it."

"What did she do?"
demanded Fanny.

"Oh,
she shook him."

"What a spectacle!"
and Tom looked as if he would have enjoyed seeing it,
but Fanny's face grew so forbidding,
that Tom's little dog,
who was approaching
to welcome her,
put his tail between his legs and fled under the table.

"Then there is n't any
'Sparking Sunday night'?"
sung Tom,
who appeared
to have waked up again.

"Of course not.

Polly is n't going
to marry anybody;
she
's going
to keep house
for Will when he
's a minister,
I heard her say so,"
cried Maud,
with importance.

"What a fate
for pretty Polly!"
ejaculated Tom.

"She likes it,
and I
'm sure I should think she would;
it
's beautiful
to hear
'em plan it all out."

"Any more gossip
to retail,
Pug?"
asked Tom a minute after,
as Maud seemed absorbed in visions of the,
future.

"He told a funny story about blowing up one of the professors.

You never told us,
so I suppose you did n't know it.

Some bad fellow put a torpedo,
or some sort of powder thing,
under the chair,
and it went off in the midst of the lesson,
and the poor man flew up,
frightened most
to pieces,
and the boys ran
with pails of water
to put the fire out.

But the thing that made Will laugh most was,
that the very fellow who did it got his trousers burnt trying
to put out the fire,
and he asked the is it Faculty or President?

"
"Either will do,"
murmured Tom,
who was shaking
with suppressed laughter.

"Well,
he asked
'em
to give him some new ones,
and they did give him money enough,
for a nice pair;
but he got some cheap ones,
with horrid great stripes on
'em,
and always wore
'em
to that particular class,
'which was one too many
for the fellows,'
Will said,
and
with the rest of the money he had a punch party.

Was n't it dreadful?"
"Awful!"
And Tom exploded into a great laugh,
that made Fanny cover her ears,
and the little dog bark wildly.

"Did you know that bad boy?"
asked innocent Maud.

"Slightly,"
gasped Tom,
in whose wardrobe at college those identical trousers were hanging at that moment.

"Don't make such a noise,
my head aches dreadfully,"
said Fanny,
fretfully.

"Girls'
heads always do ache,"
answered Tom,
subsiding from a roar into a chuckle.

"What pleasure you boys can find in such ungentlemanly things,
I don't see,"
said Fanny,
who was evidently out of sorts.

"As much a mystery
to you as it is
to us,
how you girls can like
to gabble and prink from one week's end
to the other,"
retorted Tom.

There was a pause after this little passage-at-arms,
but Fan wanted
to be amused,
for time hung heavily on her hands,
so she asked,
in a more amiable tone,
"How
's Trix?"
"As sweet as ever,"
answered Tom,
gruffly.

"Did she scold you,
as usual?"
"She just did."

"What was the matter?"
"Well,
I
'll leave it
to you if this is n't unreasonable:

she won't dance
with me herself,
yet don't like me
to go it
with anybody else.

I said,
I thought,
if a fellow took a girl
to a party,
she ought
to dance
with him once,
at least,
especially if they were engaged.

She said that was the very reason why she should n't do it;
so,
at the last hop,
I let her alone,
and had a gay time
with Belle,
and to-day Trix gave it
to me hot and heavy,
coming home from church."

"If you go and engage yourself
to a girl like that,
I don't know what you can expect.

Did she wear her Paris hat to-day?"
added Fan,
with sudden interest in her voice.

"She wore some sort of a blue thing,
with a confounded bird of Paradise in it,
that kept whisking into my face every time she turned her head."

"Men never know a pretty thing when they see it.

That hat is perfectly lovely."

"They know a lady when they see her,
and Trix don't look like one;
I can't say where the trouble is,
but there
's too much fuss and feathers
for my taste.

You are twice as stylish,
yet you never look loud or fast."

Touched by this unusual compliment,
Fanny drew her chair nearer as she replied
with complacency,
"Yes,
I flatter myself I do know how
to dress well.

Trix never did;
she
's fond of gay colors,
and generally looks like a walking rainbow."

"Can't you give her a hint?

Tell her not
to wear blue gloves anyway,
she knows I hate
'em."

"I
've done my best
for your sake,
Tom,
but she is a perverse creature,
and don't mind a word I say,
even about things much more objectionable than blue gloves."

"Maudie,
run and bring me my other cigar case,
it
's lying round somewhere."

Maud went;
and as soon as the door was shut,
Tom rose on his elbow,
saying in a cautiously lowered voice,
"Fan,
does Trix paint?"
"Yes,
and draws too,"
answered Fanny,
with a sly laugh.

"Come,
you know what I mean;
I
've a right
to ask and you ought
to tell,"
said Tom,
soberly,
for he was beginning
to find that being engaged was not unmitigated bliss.

"What makes you think she does?"
"Well,
between ourselves,"
said Tom,
looking a little sheepish,
but anxious
to set his mind at rest,
"she never will let me kiss her on her cheek,
nothing but an unsatisfactory peck at her lips.

Then the other day,
as I took a bit of heliotrope out of a vase
to put in my button-hole,
I whisked a drop of water into her face;
I was going
to wipe it off,
but she pushed my hand away,
and ran
to the glass,
where she carefully dabbed it dry,
and came back
with one cheek redder than the other.

I did n't say anything,
but I had my suspicions.

Come now,
does she?"
"Yes,
she does;
but don't say a word
to her,
for she
'll never forgive my telling if she knew it."

"I don't care
for that;
I don't like it,
and I won't have it,"
said Tom,
decidedly.

"You can't help yourself.

Half the girls do it,
either paint or powder,
darken their lashes
with burnt hair-pins,
or take cologne on lumps of sugar or belladonna
to make their eyes bright.

Clara tried arsenic
for her complexion,
but her mother stopped it,"
said Fanny,
betraying the secrets of the prison-house in the basest manner.

"I knew you girls were a set of humbugs,
and very pretty ones,
too,
some of you,
but I can't say I like
to see you painted up like a lot of actresses,"
said Tom,
with an air of disgust.

"I don't do anything of the sort,
or need it,
but Trix does;
and having chosen her,
you must abide your choice,
for better or worse."

"It has n't come
to that yet,"
muttered Tom,
as he lay down again
with a rebellious air.

Maud's return put an end
to these confidences,
though Tom excited her curiosity by asking the mysterious question,
"I say,
Fan,
is Polly up
to that sort of thing?"
"No,
she thinks it
's awful.

When she gets pale and dragged out she will probably change her mind."

"I doubt it,"
said Tom.

"Polly says it is n't proper
to talk secrets before people who ain't in
'em,"
observed Maud,
with dignity.

"Do,
for mercy sake,
stop talking about Polly,
I
'm sick
to death of it,"
cried Fanny,
snappishly.

"Hullo!"
and Tom sat up
to take a survey.

"I thought you were bosom friends,
and as spoony as ever."

"Well,
I am fond of Polly,
but I get tired of hearing Maud sing her praises everlastingly.

Now don't go and repeat that,
chatterbox."

"My goodness,
is n't she cross?"
whispered Maud
to Tom.

"As two sticks;
let her be.

There
's the bell;
see who it is,
Pug,"
answered Tom,
as a tingle broke the silence of the house.

Maud went
to peep over the banisters,
and came flying back in a rapture.

"It
's Will come
for me! Can't I go?

It don't snow hard,
and I
'll bundle up,
and you can send
for me when papa comes."

"I don't care what you do,"
answered Fan,
who was in a very bad temper.

Without waiting
for any other permission,
Maud rushed away
to get ready.

Will would n't come up,
he was so snowy,
and Fanny was glad,
because
with her he was bashful,
awkward,
and silent,
so Tom went down and entertained him
with Maud's report.

They were very good friends,
but led entirely different lives,
Will being a
"dig,"
and Tom a
"bird,"
or,
in plain English,
one was a hard student,
and the other a jolly young gentleman.

Tom had rather patronized Will,
who did n't like it,
and showed that he did n't by refusing
to borrow money of him,
or accept any of his invitations
to join the clubs and societies
to which Tom belonged.

So Shaw let Milton alone,
and he got on very well in his own way,
doggedly sticking
to his books,
and resisting all temptations but those of certain libraries,
athletic games,
and such inexpensive pleasures as were within his means;
for this benighted youth had not yet discovered that college nowadays is a place in which to
"sky-lark,"
not
to study.

When Maud came down and trotted contentedly away,
holding Will's hand,
Tom watched them out of sight,
and then strolled about the house whistling and thinking,
till he went
to sleep in his father's arm-chair,
for want of something better
to do.

He awoke
to the joys of a solitary tea,
for his mother never came down,
and Fanny shut herself and her headache up in her own room.

"Well,
this is cheerful,"
he said,
as the clock struck eight,
and his fourth cigar came
to an end.

"Trix is mad,
and Fan in the dumps,
so I
'll take myself off.

Guess I
'll go round
to Polly's,
and ask Will
to drive out
with me,
and save him the walk,
poor chap.

Might bring Midget home,
it will please her,
and there
's no knowing when the governor will be back."

With these thoughts in his head,
Tom leisurely got under way,
and left his horse at a neighboring stable,
for he meant
to make a little call,
and see what it was Maud enjoyed so much.

"Polly is holding forth,"
he said
to himself,
as he went quietly up stairs,
and the steady murmur of a pleasant voice came down
to him.

Tom laughed at Polly's earnest way of talking when she was interested in anything.

But he liked it because it was so different from the coquettish clatter of most of the girls
with whom he talked.

Young men often laugh at the sensible girls whom they secretly respect,
and affect
to admire the silly ones whom they secretly despise,
because earnestness,
intelligence,
and womanly dignity are not the fashion.

The door was ajar,
and pausing in the dark entry Tom took a survey before he went in.

The prospect was not dazzling,
but home-like and pleasant.

The light of a bright fire filled the little room,
and down on a stool before it was Maud tending Puttel,
and watching
with deep interest the roasting of an apple intended
for her special benefit.

On the couch lounged Will,
his thoughtful eyes fixed on Polly,
who,
while she talked,
smoothed the broad forehead of her
"yellow-haired laddie"
in a way that Tom thought an immense improvement on Maud's performance.

They had evidently been building castles in the air,
for Polly was saying in her most impressive manner,
"Well,
whatever you do,
Will,
don't have a great,
costly church that takes so much money
to build and support it that you have nothing
to give away.

I like the plain,
old-fashioned churches,
built
for use,
not show,
where people met
for hearty praying and preaching,
and where everybody made their own music instead of listening
to opera singers,
as we do now.

I don't care if the old churches were bare and cold,
and the seats hard,
there was real piety in them,
and the sincerity of it was felt in the lives of the people.

I don't want a religion that I put away
with my Sunday clothes,
and don't take out till the day comes round again;
I want something
to see and feel and live by day-by-day,
and I hope you
'll be one of the true ministers,
who can teach by precept and example,
how
to get and keep it."

"I hope I shall be,
Polly,
but you know they say that in families,
if there is a boy who can't do anything else,
they make a minister of him.

I sometimes think I ain't good
for much,
and that seems
to me the reason why I should n't even try
to be a minister,"
said Will,
smiling,
yet looking as if
with all his humility he did have faith in the aspirations that came
to him in his best moments.

"Some one said that very thing
to father once,
and I remember he answered,
'I am glad
to give my best and brightest son
to the service of God.'
"
"Did he say that?"
and Will's color rose,
for the big,
book-loving fellow was as sensitive as a girl
to the praise of those dearest
to him.

"Yes,"
said Polly,
unconsciously giving the strongest stimulus
to her brother's hope and courage.

"Yes,
and he added,
'I shall let my boys follow the guide that is in them,
and only ask of them
to use their gifts conscientiously,
and be honest,
useful men.'
"
"So we will! Ned is doing well out West,
and I
'm hard at it here.

If father does his best
to give us the chance we each want,
the least we can do is
to work
with a will."

"Whatever you do,
you can't help working
with a Will,"
cried Tom,
who had been so interested,
that he forgot he was playing eavesdropper.

Polly flew up,
looking so pleased and surprised,
that Tom reproached himself
for not having called oftener.

"I
've come
for Maud,"
he announced,
in a paternal tone,
which made that young lady open her eyes.

"I can't go till my apple is done;
besides,
it is n't nine yet,
and Will is going
to take me along,
when he goes.

I
'd rather have him."

"I
'm going
to take you both in the cutter.

The storm is over,
but it is heavy walking,
so you
'll drive out
with me,
old man?"
said Tom,
with a nod at Will.

"Of course he will;
and thank you very much.

I
've been trying
to keep him all night;
Miss Mills always manages
to find a corner
for stray people,
but he insists on going,
so as
to get
to work early to-morrow,"
said Polly,
delighted
to see that Tom was taking off his coat,
as if he meant
to wait
for Maud's apple,
which Polly blessed
for being so slow
to cook.

Putting her guest into the best chair,
Polly sat down and beamed at him
with such hospitable satisfaction,
that Tom went up several pegs in his own estimation.

"You don't come very often,
so we are rather over-powered when you do honor us,"
she said,
demurely.

"Well,
you,
know we fellows are so busy,
we have n't much time
to enjoy ourselves,"
answered Tom.

"Ahem!"
said Will,
loudly.

"Take a troche,"
said Tom.

Then they both burst out laughing,
and Polly,
fully understanding the joke,
joined them,
saying,
"Here are some peanuts,
Tom;
do enjoy yourself while you can."

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!"
And Tom,
who had not lost his early relish
for this sort of refreshment,
though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays,
because peanuts are considered vulgar,
fell
to cracking and munching
with great satisfaction.

"Do you remember the first visit I made at your house,
how you gave me peanuts,
coming from the depot,
and frightened me out of my wits,
pretending the coachman was tipsy?"
asked Polly.

"Of course I do,
and how we coasted one day,"
answered Tom,
laughing.

"Yes,
and the velocipede;
you
've got the scar of that yet,
I see."

"I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up;
that was very plucky,
Polly."

"I was dreadfully afraid,
but I remember I wanted
to seem very brave,
because you
'd called me a coward."

"Did I?

Ought
to have been ashamed of myself.

I used
to rough you shamefully,
Polly,
and you were so good-natured,
you let me do it."

"Could n't help myself,"
laughed Polly.

"I did use
to think you were an awful boy,
but seems
to me I rather liked it."

"She had so much of it at home,
she got used
to it,"
put in Will,
pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear.

"You boys never teased me as Tom did,
that
's the reason it amused me,
I suppose;
novelty hath charms,
you know."

"Grandma used
to lecture Tom
for plaguing you,
Polly,
and he used
to say he
'd be a tip-top boy,
but he was n't,"
observed Maud,
with a venerable air.

"Dear old grandma;
she did her best,
but I
'm a bad lot,"
said Tom,
with a shake of the head and a sober face.

"It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms,
and I can't get used
to finding them empty,"
added Polly,
softly.

"Father would n't have anything moved,
and Tom sits up there sometimes;
it makes him feel good,
he says,"
said Maud,
who had a talent
for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public.

"You
'd better hurry up your apple,
for if it is n't done pretty soon,
you
'll have
to leave it,
Pug,"
said Tom,
looking annoyed.

"How is Fan?"
asked Polly,
with tact.

"Well,
Fan is rather under the weather;
says she
's dyspeptic,
which means cross."

"She is cross,
but she
's sick too,
for I found her crying one day,
and she said nobody cared about her,
and she might as well be dead,"
added Maud,
having turned her apple
with tender care.

"We must try
to cheer her up,
among us.

If I was n't so busy I
'd like
to devote myself
to her,
she has done so much
for me,"
said Polly,
gratefully.

"I wish you could.

I can't understand her,
for she acts like a weathercock,
and I never know how I
'm going
to find her.

I hate
to have her mope so,
but,
upon my life,
I don't know what
to do,"
said Tom;
but as he uttered the words,
something was suggested by the sight before him.

Chairs were few,
and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire.

Now she was leaning against him,
in a cosy,
confiding way,
delightful
to behold,
while Will's strong arm went round her
with a protecting air,
which said,
as plainly as any words,
that this big brother and small sister knew how
to love and help one another.

It was a pleasant little picture,
all the pleasanter
for its unconsciousness,
and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable.

"Poor old Fan,
she don't get much petting;
maybe that
's what she wants.

I
'll try it and see,
for she stands by me like a trump.

If she was a rosy,
cosy little woman,
like Polly,
it would come easier,
though,"
thought Tom,
as he meditatively ate his last nut,
feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration,
to brothers blessed
with pretty,
good-tempered sisters.

"I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor,
and he said he knew him,
slightly;
and I was so relieved,
because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself,
you and Will laughed so about it."

Maud had a queer way of going on
with her own thoughts,
and suddenly coming out
with whatever lay uppermost,
regardless of time,
place,
or company.

As this remark fell from her,
there was a general smile,
and Polly said,
with mock solemnity,
"It was a sad thing,
and I
've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry
for it now."

"He looked perfectly bowed down
with remorse last time I saw him,"
said Will,
regarding Tom
with eyes full of fun,
for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm,
and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom.

"He always is remorseful after a scrape,
I
've understood,
for he is n't a very bad fellow,
only his spirits are one too many
for him,
and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know."

"I
'm afraid he
'll he expelled if he don't mind,"
said Polly,
warningly.

"Should n't wonder if he was,
he
's such an unlucky dog,"
answered Tom,
rather soberly.

"I hope he
'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is.

He might make them so proud and happy;
that I guess he will,
for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out,"
said Polly,
looking across at Tom
with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched,
though of course he did n't show it.

"Thank you,
Polly;
he may pull through,
but I have my doubts.

Now old man,
let us
'pud'
along;
it
's getting late
for the chicken,"
he added,
relapsing into the graceful diction
with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor.

Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling
with his boots in the closet,
and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket,
Polly said
to Tom in a low tone,
"Thank you very much,
for being so kind
to Will."

"Bless your heart,
I have n't done anything;
he
's such a proud fellow he won't let me,"
answered Tom.

"But you do in many little ways;
to-night,
for example.

Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he
's just got would have cost a good deal more,
if your tailor had n't made them?

He
's only a boy,
and don't understand things yet;
but I know your way of helping proud people;
so that they don't find it out,
and I do thank you,
Tom,
so much."

"Oh,
come,
Polly,
that won't do.

What do you know about tailors and college matters?"
said Tom,
looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible.

"I don't know much,
and that
's the reason why I
'm grateful
for your kindness
to Will.

I don't care what stories they tell about you,
I
'm sure,
you won't lead him into trouble,
but keep him straight,
for my sake.

You know I
've lost one brother,
and Will takes Jimmy's place
to me now."

The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself
to stand by Will through thick and thin,
and
"keep him straight
for Polly's sake";
feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was
for such a task.

"I
'll do my best,"
he said,
heartily,
as he pressed the hand Polly gave him,
with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal
to his honor,
and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him.

"There! now I shall give that
to mamma
to take her pills in;
it
's just what she likes,
and it pleases her
to be thought of,"
said Maud,
surveying her gift
with complacency,
as she put on her things.

"You
're a good little soul,
to remember poor mum,
said Tom,
with an approving nod.

"Well,
she was so pleased
with the grapes you brought her,
I thought I
'd try something,
and maybe she
'd say
'Thank you,
darling,'
to me too.

Do you think she will?"
whispered Maud,
with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face.

"See if she don't;"
and
to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project.

"Good night,
dear;
take care of yourself,
and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge,
or you
'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow,"
said Polly,
as she kissed her brother,
who returned it without looking as if he thought it
"girl's nonsense"
Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off,
leave Polly nodding on the doorstep.

Maud found the drive altogether too short,
but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday:

and when Tom ran up
to bid his mother good-by,
and give her a hint about Maud's gift,
she stayed below
to say,
at the last minute,
in unconscious imitation of Polly.

"Good night;
take care of yourself,
my dear."

Tom laughed,
and was about
to pinch the much enduring little nose;
but,
as if the words reminded him of something,
he gave her a kiss instead,
a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away
with surprise and gratification.

It was rather a silent drive,
for Will obediently kept his muffler up,
and Tom fell into a brown study.

He was not much given
to reflection,
but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction,
and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired.

Any one might have lectured him
for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it,
for,
though nothing very wise or witty was said,
many things were suggested,
and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing.

Neither Polly nor Will tried
to do anything of the sort,
and that was the charm of it.

Nobody likes
to be talked to,
but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching.

With all his thoughtlessness,
Tom was quick
to see and feel these things,
and was not spoilt enough yet
to laugh at them.

The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection
for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly,
that he could not forget it.

Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again,
doing better.

Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good,
and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother
to his care stirred up a manful desire
to deserve the confidence.

Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him,
but it had its effect,
for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college,
and little things of this sort do much
to keep both from being damaged by the four years'
scrimmage which begins the battle of life
for most of them.

CHAPTER XI NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY,
The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P.

M.

This is in your line,
so do come and help me through.

I shall depend on you.

Yours ever,
FAN.

"Bad news,
my dear?"
asked Miss Mills,
who had just handed the note
to Polly as she came in one noon,
a few weeks after Jenny's arrival.

Polly told her what it was,
adding,
"I suppose I ought
to go and help Fanny,
but I can't say I want to.

The girls talk about things I have nothing
to do with,
and I don't find their gossip very amusing.

I
'm an outsider,
and they only accept me on Fan's account;
so I sit in a corner and sew,
while they chatter and laugh."

"Would n't it be a good chance
to say a word
for Jenny?

She wants work,
and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere.

Jenny does fine work exquisitely,
and begins
to feel anxious
to be earning something.

I don't want her
to feel dependent and unhappy,
and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs
to do nicely.

I can get it
for her by running round
to my friends,
but I really have n't the time,
till I get the Mullers off.

They are paupers here,
but out West they can take care of themselves,
so I
've begged the money
to send them,
and as soon as I can get them some clothes,
off they go.

That
's the way
to help people help themselves,"
and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically,
as she cut out a little red flannel shirt.

"I know it is,
and I want
to help,
but I don't know where
to begin,"
said Polly,
feeling quite oppressed
with the immensity of the work.

"We can't any of us do all we would like,
but we can do our best
for every case that comes
to us,
and that helps amazingly.

Begin
with Jenny,
my dear;
tell those girls about her,
and if I
'm not much mistaken,
you will find them ready
to help,
for half the time it is n't hardness of heart,
but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich,
that makes them seem so careless of the poor."

"To tell the truth,
I
'm afraid of being laughed at,
if I try
to talk seriously about such things
to the girls,"
said Polly,
frankly.

"You believe that
'such things'
are true?

You are sincere in your wish
to help better them,
and you respect those who work
for that end?"
"Yes,
I do."

"Then,
my dear,
can't you bear a little ridicule
for the sake of a good cause?

You said yesterday that you were going
to make it a principle of your life,
to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could.

It did my heart good
to hear you say it,
for I was sure that in time you would keep your word.

But,
Polly,
a principle that can't bear being laughed at,
frowned on,
and cold-shouldered,
is n't worthy of the name."

"I want
to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word,
but I don't like
to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning;
and I shall be if I try
to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic.

They call me old-fashioned now,
and I
'd rather be thought that,
though it is n't pleasant,
than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer,"
said Polly,
in whose memory many laughs,
and snubs,
and sarcasms still lingered,
forgiven but not forgotten.

"This love and thought and care
for those weaker,
poorer,
or worse than ourselves,
which we call Christian charity,
is a very old fashion,
my dear.

It began eighteen hundred years ago,
and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then,
learn how
to get genuine happiness out of life.

I
'm not a
'rampant woman's rights reformer,'"
added Miss Mills,
with a smile at Polly's sober face;
"but I think that women can do a great deal
for each other,
if they will only stop fearing what
'people will think,'
and take a hearty interest in whatever is going
to fit their sisters and themselves
to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them.

There are so many ways in which this can be done,
that I wonder they don't see and improve them.

I don't ask you
to go and make speeches,
only a few have the gift
for that,
but I do want every girl and woman
to feel this duty,
and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them,
because there is so much
to do,
and no one can do it as well as ourselves,
if we only think so."

"I
'll try!"
said Polly,
influenced more by her desire
to keep Miss Mills'
good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice
for her sex.

It was rather a hard thing
to ask of a shy,
sensitive girl,
and the kind old lady knew it,
for in spite of the gray hair and withered face,
her heart was very young,
and her own girlish trials not forgotten.

But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected,
simply because of her candid,
upright nature;
and that while she tried
to help others,
she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life,
which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper,
and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads.

There was good stuff in Polly,
unspoiled as yet,
and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other.

The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman,
asking something more substantial than pleasure
to satisfy the new aspirations that are born;
a time as precious and important
to the after-life,
as the hour when the apple blossoms fall,
and the young fruit waits
for the elements
to ripen or destroy the harvest.

Polly did not know this,
and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best,
and who could give her what all women should desire
to give each other,
the example of a sweet,
good life,
more eloquent and powerful than any words;
for this is a right no one can deny us.

Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed,
while Jenny played waiting maid,
little dreaming what this new friend was meaning
to do
for her,
if she dared.

"Is it going
to be a tea-party,
Miss?"
asked Jenny,
as the black silk went rustling on,
to her great admiration,
for she considered Polly a beauty.

"Well,
no,
I think it will probably be a lecture,"
answered Polly,
laughing,
for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills'
little homily had suggested.

As she entered the Shaws'
parlor an hour or two later,
an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared,
each provided
with a dainty reticule,
basket,
or bag,
and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle,
while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down,
put flannel jackets together hind part before,
or gobbled button-holes
with the best intentions in life.

"You are a dear
to come so early.

Here
's a nice place
for you between Belle and Miss Perkins,
and here
's a sweet little dress
to make,
unless you like something else better,"
said Fanny,
receiving her friend
with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself.

"Thank you,
I
'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing,
for it is likely
to be needed before a cambric frock,"
replied Polly,
subsiding into her comer as quickly as possible,
for at least six eye-glasses were up,
and she did n't enjoy being stared at.

Miss Perkins,
a grave,
cold-looking young lady,
with an aristocratic nose,
bowed politely,
and then went on
with her work,
which displayed two diamond rings
to great advantage.

Belle,
being of the demonstrative sort,
smiled and nodded,
drew up her chair,
and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel
with Tom.

Polly listened
with interest while she sewed diligently,
occasionally permitting her eyes
to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins'
dress,
for that young lady sat like a statue,
quirking her delicate fingers,
and accomplishing about two stitches a minute.

In the midst of Belle's story,
a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear,
and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table,
leaving Polly free
to listen and admire the wit,
wisdom,
and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her.

There was a perfect Babel of tongues,
but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect
for the dwellers in high places.

One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German,
that he had
to be got away,
and sent home
with two servants.

Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'

s wedding presents were half of them hired
for the occasion.

A third circulated a whisper
to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak,
her boys were not allowed but one sheet
to their beds.

And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself
to a certain other person,
though the report was industriously spread by interested parties.

This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting
to order in a most unparliamentary fashion.

"Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more,
or our society will be disgraced.

Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others.

last month,
and Mrs. Fitz George said,
she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage
to do so little?"
"We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do.

I just wish you could have heard them go on,
last time.

The way they get so much done,
is,
they take work home,
and make their seamstresses do it,
and then they take credit
for vast industry,"
said Belle,
who always spoke her mind
with charming candor.

"That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make,
for it
's a hard winter,
and the poor are suffering very much.

Do any of you wish
to take articles home,
to do at odd times?"
said Fan,
who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society.

"Mercy,
no! It takes all my leisure time
to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses,"
answered Belle.

"I think if we meet once a week,
it is all that should be expected of us,
with our other engagements.

Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one,
and never are satisfied,"
remarked Miss Perkins,
making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron,
which would hardly survive one washing.

"Nobody can ask me
to do any more,
if they remember all I
've got
to attend
to before summer,"
said Trix,
with an important air.

"I
've got three women hard at work,
and want another,
but everyone is so busy,
and ask such abominable prices,
that I
'm in despair,
and shall have
to take hold myself,
I
'm afraid."

"There
's a chance
for Jane,"
thought Polly,
but had n't courage
"to speak out loud in meeting,"
just then,
and resolved
to ask Trix
for work,
in private.

"Prices are high,
but you forget how much more it costs
to live now than it used
to do.

Mamma never allows us
to beat down workwomen,
but wishes us
to pay them well,
and economize in some other way,
if we must,"
said Emma Davenport,
a quiet,
bright-eyed girl,
who was called
"odd
"
among the young ladies,
because she dressed simply,
when her father was a millionaire.

"Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon,
she
's some relation of yours,
I believe!"
said Belle,
in a low tone.

"Very distant;
but I
'm proud of it;
for
with her,
economy does n't mean scrimping in one place
to make a show in another.

If every one would follow the Davenports'
example,
workwomen would n't starve,
or servants be such a trouble.

Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room,
next
to me,
yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman,"
said Polly,
warmly.

"And you are another,"
answered Belle,
who had always loved Polly,
in her scatter-brained way.

"Hush! Trix has the floor."

"If they spent their wages properly,
I should n't mind so much,
but they think they must be as fine as anybody,
and dress so well that it is hard
to tell mistress from maid.

Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine
(the materials were cheaper,
but the effect was the same),
and had the impertinence
to wear it before my face.

I forbid it,
and she left,
of course,
which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year."

"It
's perfectly shameful!"
said Miss Perkins,
as Trix paused out of breath.

"Servants ought
to be made
to dress like servants,
as they do abroad;
then we should have no more trouble,"
observed Miss Perkins,
who had just made the grand tour,
and had brought home a French maid.

"Perky don't practise as she preaches,"
whispered Belle
to Polly,
as Miss P.

became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors.

"She pays her chamber girl
with old finery;
and the other day,
when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit,
Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle,
and bowed
to her.

He is as blind as a bat,
but recognized the dress,
and pulled off his hat
to it in the most elegant style.

Perky adores him,
and was mad enough
to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it.

Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky,
and she knows it,
which is an aggravation."

Polly could n't help laughing,
but grew sober a minute after,
as Trix said,
pettishly,
"Well,
I
'm sick of hearing about beggars;
I believe half of them are humbugs,
and if we let them alone they
'd go
to work and take care of themselves.

There
's altogether too much fuss made about charity.

I do wish we could be left in peace."

"There can't be too much charity!"
burst out Polly,
forgetting her shyness all at once.

"Oh,
indeed! Well,
I take the liberty
to differ from you,"
returned Trix,
putting up her glass,
and bestowing upon Polly her most
"toploftical stare,"
as the girls called it.

I regret
to say that Polly never could talk
with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative.

She tried
to conquer this feeling,
but she could n't,
and when Trix put on airs,
Polly felt an intense desire
to box her ears.

That eye-glass was her especial aversion,
for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself,
but pretended
to be because it was the fashion,
and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon
with which
to put down any one who presumed
to set themselves up.

The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly,
who answered
with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit,
"I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace,
while little children starve,
and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death."

A sudden lull took place,
for,
though Polly,
did not raise her voice,
it was full of indignant emotion,
and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy;
for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women,
till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads.

Trix was ashamed of herself;
but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly,
that Polly did toward her;
and,
being less generous,
took satisfaction in plaguing her.

Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model
for his fianc,e
to follow,
which caused that young lady
to dislike her more than ever.

"Half the awful stories in the papers are made up
for a sensation,
and it
's absurd
to believe them,
unless one likes
to be harrowed up.

I don't;
and as
for peace,
I
'm not likely
to get much,
while I have Tom
to look after,"
said Trix,
with an aggravating laugh.

Polly's needle snapped in two,
but she did not mind it,
as she said,
with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix,
"I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard.

You lead such safe and happy lives,
you can't imagine the misery that is all round you;
but if you could get a glimpse of it,
it would make your hearts ache,
as it has mine."

"Do you suffer from heartache?

Some one hinted as much
to me,
but you looked so well,
I could n't believe it."

Now that was cruel in Trix,
more cruel than any one guessed;
but girls'
tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair,
and Polly turned pale,
as those words stabbed her.

Belle saw it,
and rushed
to the rescue
with more good-will than wisdom.

"Nobody ever accused you of having any heart
to ache with.

Polly and I are not old enough yet
to get tough and cool,
and we are still silly enough
to pity unhappy people,
Tom Shaw especially,"
added Belle,
under her breath.

That was a two-edged thrust,
for Trix was decidedly an old girl,
and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim.

Trix turned red;
but before she could load and fire again,
Emma Davenport,
who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured,
and therefore ill-bred,
spoke up in her pleasant way,
"Speaking of pitying the poor,
I always wonder why it is that we all like
to read and cry over their troubles in books,
but when we have the real thing before us,
we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable."

"It
's the genius that gets into the books,
which makes us like the poverty,
I fancy.

But I don't quite agree that the real thing is n't interesting.

I think it would be,
if we knew how
to look at and feel it,"
said Polly,
very quietly,
as she pushed her chair out of the arctic circle of Miss Perkins,
into the temperate one of friendly Emma.

"But how shall we learn that?

I don't see what we girls can do,
more than we do now.

We have n't much money
for such things,
should n't know how
to use it if we had;
and it is n't proper
for us
to go poking into dirty places,
to hunt up the needy.

'Going about doing good,
in pony phaetons,'
as somebody says,
may succeed in England,
but it won't work here,"
said Fanny,
who had begun,
lately,
to think a good deal of some one beside herself,
and so found her interest in her fellow-beings increasing daily.

"We can't do much,
perhaps,
just yet;
but still there are things left undone that naturally fall
to us.

I know a house,"
said Polly,
sewing busily as she talked,
"where every servant who enters it becomes an object of interest
to the mistress and her daughters.

These women are taught good habits,
books are put where they can get them,
sensible amusements are planned
for them sometimes,
and they soon feel that they are not considered mere scrubs,
to do as much work as possible,
for as little money as possible,
but helpers in the family,
who are loved and respected in proportion
to their faithfulness.

This lady feels her duty
to them,
owns it,
and does it,
as conscientiously as she wants them
to do theirs by her;
and that is the way it ought
to be,
I think."

As Polly paused,
several keen eyes discovered that Emma's cheeks were very red,
and saw a smile lurking in the corners of the mouth that tried
to look demure,
which told them who Polly meant.

"Do the Biddies all turn out saints in that well regulated family?"
asked the irrepressible Trix.

"No;
few of us do that,
even in the parlor;
but every one of the Biddies is better
for being there,
whether they are grateful or not.

I ought not
to have mentioned this,
perhaps,
but I wanted
to show you one thing that we girls can do.

We all complain about bad servants,
most as much as if we were house-keepers ourselves;
but it never occurs
to us
to try and mend the matter,
by getting up a better spirit between mistress and maid.

Then there
's another thing we can do,"
added Polly,
warming up.

"Most of us find money enough
for our little vanities and pleasures,
but feel dreadfully poor when we come
to pay
for work,
sewing especially.

Could n't we give up a few of the vanities,
and pay the seamstresses better?"
"I declare I will!"
cried Belle,
whose conscience suddenly woke,
and smote her
for beating down the woman who did her plain sewing,
in order that she might have an extra flounce on a new dress.

"Belle has got a virtuous fit;
pity it won't last a week,"
said Trix.

"Wait and see,"
retorted Belle,
resolving that it should last,
just
to disappoint
"that spiteful minx;"
as she sweetly called her old school-mate.

"Now we shall behold Belle galloping away at a great pace,
on her new hobby.

I should n't be surprised
to hear of her preaching in the jail,
adopting a nice dirty little orphan,
or passing round tracts at a Woman's Rights meeting,"
said Trix,
who never could forgive Belle
for having a lovely complexion,
and so much hair of her own that she never patronized either rats,
mice,
waterfalls,
switches,
or puff-combs.

"Well,
I might do worse;
and I think,
of the two,
I
'd rather amuse myself so,
than as some young ladies do,
who get into the papers
for their pranks,"
returned Belle,
with a moral air.

"Suppose we have a little recess,
and rest while Polly plays
to us.

Will you,
Polly?

It will do us good;
they all want
to hear you,
and begged I
'd ask."

"Then I will,
with pleasure";
and Polly went
to the piano
with such obliging readiness,
that several reproachful glances fell upon Trix,
who did n't need her glass
to see them.

Polly was never too sad,
perturbed,
or lazy
to sing,
for it was almost as easy
to her as breathing,
and seemed the most natural outlet
for her emotions.

For a minute her hands wandered over the keys,
as if uncertain what
to play;
then,
falling into a sad,
sweet strain,
she sang
"The Bridge of Sighs."

Polly did n't know why she chose it,
but the instinct seemed
to have been a true one,
for,
old as the song was,
it went straight
to the hearts of the hearers,
and Polly sung it better than she ever had before,
for now the memory of little Jane lent it a tender pathos which no art could give.

It did them all good,
for music is a beautiful magician,
and few can resist its power.

The girls were touched by the appeal;
Polly was lifted out of herself,
and when she turned round,
the softened look on all the faces told her that
for the moment foolish differences and frivolous beliefs were forgotten in the one womanly sentiment of pity
for the wrongs and woes of which the listeners'
happy lives were ignorant.

"That song always makes me cry,
and feel as if I had no right
to be so comfortable,"
said Belle,
openly wiping her eyes on a crash towel.

"Fortunately such cases are very rare,"
said another young lady,
who seldom read the newspapers.

"I wish they were,
but I
'm afraid they are not;
for only three weeks ago,
I saw a girl younger than any of us,
and no worse,
who tried
to destroy herself simply because she was so discouraged,
sick,
and poor,"
said Polly.

"Do tell about her,"
cried Belle,
eagerly.

Feeling that the song had paved the way
for the story,
and given her courage
to tell it,
Polly did tell it,
and must have done it well,
for the girls stopped work
to listen,
and when she ended,
other eyes beside warm-hearted Belle's were wet.

Trix looked quite subdued;
Miss Perkins thawed
to such a degree,
that something glittered on her hand as she bent over the pink pinafore again,
better and brighter than her biggest diamond;
Emma got up and went
to Polly
with a face full of affectionate respect,
while Fanny,
moved by a sudden impulse,
caught up a costly SSvres plate that stood on the etagSre,
and laying a five-dollar bill in it,
passed it round,
quoting Polly's words,
"Girls,
I know you
'll like
to help poor little Jenny
'begin again,
and do better this time.'
"
It was good
to see how quickly the pretty purses were out,
how generously each gave of its abundance,
and what hearty applause broke from the girls,
as Belle laid down her gold thimble,
saying
with an April face,
"There,
take that;
I never have any money,
somehow it won't stay
with me,
but I can't let the plate pass me this time."

When Fanny brought the contributions
to Polly,
she just gathered it up in her two hands
with such a glad,
grateful face,
the girls wished they had had more
to give.

"I can't thank you enough,"
she said,
with an eloquent little choke in her voice.

"This will help Jenny very much;
but the way in which it was done will do her more good than double the money,
because it will prove
to her that she is n't without friends,
and make her feel that there is a place in the world
for her.

Let her work
for you in return
for this;
she don't ask alms,
she only wants employment and a little kindness,
and the best charity we can bestow is
to see that she has both."

"I
'll give her as much sewing as she wants,
and she can stay at our house while she does it,
if she needs a home,"
said Trix,
in a spasm of benevolence.

"She does n't need a home,
thank you;
Miss Mills has given half of hers,
and considers Jane her child,"
answered Polly,
with proud satisfaction in the fact.

"What an old dear!"
cried Belle.

"I want
to know her.

May I?"
whispered Emma.

"Oh,
yes;
I
'm glad
to make her known
to any one.

She is a quiet little old lady,
but she does one heaps of good,
and shows you how
to be charitable in the wisest way."

"Do tell us about it.

I
'm sure I want
to do my duty,
but it
's such a muddle,
I don't know how,"
said Belle.

Then,
quite naturally,
the conversation fell upon the great work that none should be too busy
to think of,
and which few are too young or too poor
to help on
with their mite.

The faces grew more earnest,
the fingers flew faster,
as the quick young hearts and brains took in the new facts,
ideas,
and plans that grew out of the true stories,
the sensible hints,
the successful efforts which Polly told them,
fresh from the lips of Miss Mills;
for,
of late,
Polly had talked much
with the good lady,
and learned quickly the lessons her unselfish life conveyed.

The girls found this more interesting than gossip,
partly owing
to its novelty,
doubtless;
but the enthusiasm was sincere while it lasted,
and did them good.

Many of them forgot all about it in a week,
but Polly's effort was not lost,
for Emma,
Belle,
and Fanny remained firm friends
to Jane,
so kindly helping her that the poor child felt as if she had indeed been born again,
into a new and happy world.

Not till long afterward did Polly see how much good this little effort had done her,
for the first small sacrifice of this sort leads the way
to others,
and a single hand's turn given heartily
to the world's great work helps one amazingly
with one's own small tasks.

Polly found this out as her life slowly grew easier and brighter,
and the beautiful law of compensation gave her better purposes and pleasures than any she had lost.

The parents of some of her pupils were persons of real refinement,
and such are always quick
to perceive the marks of culture in others,
no matter where they find them.

These,
attracted first by Polly's cheerful face,
modest manners,
and faithful work,
soon found in her something more than a good teacher;
they found a real talent
for music,
an eager desire
for helpful opportunities,
and a heart grateful
for the kindly sympathy that makes rough places smooth.

Fortunately those who have the skill
to detect these traits also possess the spirit
to appreciate and often the power
to serve and develop them.

In ways so delicate that the most sensitive pride could not resent the favor,
these true gentlefolk showed Polly their respect and regard,
put many pleasures in her way,
and when they paid her
for her work,
gave her also the hearty thanks that takes away all sense of degradation even from the humblest service,
for money so earned and paid sweetens the daily bread it buys,
and makes the mutual obligation a mutual benefit and pleasure.

A few such patrons did much
for Polly,
and the music she gave them had an undertone of gratitude that left blithe echoes in those great houses,
which money could not buy.

Then,
as her butterfly acquaintances deserted her,
she found her way into a hive of friendly bees,
who welcomed her,
and showed her how
to find the honey that keeps life sweet and wholesome.

Through Miss Mills,
who was the counsellor and comforter of several,
Polly came
to know a little sisterhood of busy,
happy,
independent girls,
who each had a purpose
to execute,
a talent
to develop,
an ambition
to achieve,
and brought
to the work patience and perseverance,
hope and courage.

Here Polly found her place at once,
for in this little world love and liberty prevailed;
talent,
energy,
and character took the first rank;
money,
fashion,
and position were literally nowhere;
for here,
as in the big world outside,
genius seemed
to blossom best when poverty was head gardener.

Young teachers,
doing much work
for little pay;
young artists,
trying
to pencil,
paint,
or carve their way
to Rome;
young writers,
burning
to distinguish themselves;
young singers,
dreaming of triumphs,
great as those of Jenny Lind;
and some who tried
to conquer independence,
armed only
with a needle,
like poor Jane.

All these helped Polly as unconsciously as she helped them,
for purpose and principle are the best teachers we can have,
and the want of them makes half the women of America what they are,
restless,
aimless,
frivolous,
and sick.

To outsiders that was a very hard-working and uneventful winter
to Polly.

She thought so herself;
but as spring came on,
the seed of new virtues,
planted in the winter time,
and ripened by the sunshine of endeavor,
began
to bud in Polly's nature,
betraying their presence
to others by the added strength and sweetness of her character,
long before she herself discovered these May flowers that had blossomed
for her underneath the snow.

CHAPTER XII FORBIDDEN FRUIT
"I
'M perfectly aching
for some fun,"
said Polly
to herself as she opened her window one morning and the sunshine and frosty air set her blood dancing and her eyes sparkling
with youth,
health,
and overflowing spirits.

"I really must break out somewhere and have a good time.

It
's quite impossible
to keep steady any longer.

Now what will I do?"
Polly sprinkled crumbs
to the doves,
who came daily
to be fed,
and while she watched the gleaming necks and rosy feet,
she racked her brain
to devise some unusually delightful way of enjoying herself,
for she really had bottled up her spirits so long,
they were in a state of uncontrollable effervescence.

"I
'll go
to the opera,"
she suddenly announced
to the doves.

"It
's expensive,
I know,
but it
's remarkably good,
and music is such a treat
to me.

Yes,
I
'll get two tickets as cheap as I can,
send a note
to Will,
poor lad,
he needs fun as much as I do,
and we
'll go and have a nice time in some corner,
as Charles Lamb and his sister used to."

With that Polly slammed down the window,
to the dismay of her gentle little pensioners,
and began
to fly about
with great energy,
singing and talking
to herself as if it was impossible
to keep quiet.

She started early
to her first lesson that she might have time
to buy the tickets,
hoping,
as she put a five-dollar bill into her purse,
that they would n't be very high,
for she felt that she was not in a mood
to resist temptation.

But she was spared any struggle,
for when she reached the place,
the ticket office was blocked up by eager purchasers and the disappointed faces that turned away told Polly there was no hope
for her.

"Well,
I don't care,
I
'll go somewhere,
for I will have my fun,"
she said
with great determination,
for disappointment only seemed
to whet her appetite.

But the playbills showed her nothing inviting and she was forced
to go away
to her work
with the money burning her pocket and all manner of wild schemes floating in her head.

At noon,
instead of going home
to dinner,
she went and took an ice,
trying
to feet very gay and festive all by herself.

It was rather a failure,
however,
and after a tour of the picture shops she went
to give Maud a lesson,
feeling that it was very hard
to quench her longings,
and subside into a prim little music teacher.

Fortunately she did not have
to do violence
to her feelings very long,
for the first thing Fanny said
to her was:

"Can you go?"
"Where?"
"Did n't you get my note?"
"I did n't go home
to dinner."

"Tom wants us
to go
to the opera to-night and
"
Fan got no further,
for Polly uttered a cry of rapture and clasped her hands.

"Go?

Of course I will.

I
've been dying
to go all day,
tried
to get tickets this morning and could n't,
been fuming about it ever since,
and now oh,
how splendid!"
And Polly could not restrain an ecstatic skip,
for this burst of joy rather upset her.

"Well,
you come
to tea,
and we
'll dress together,
and go all comfortable
with Tom,
who is in a heavenly frame of mind to-day."

"I must run home and get my things,"
said Polly,
resolving on the spot
to buy the nicest pair of gloves the city afforded.

"You shall have my white cloak and any other little rigging you want.

Tommy likes
to have his ladies a credit
to him,
you know,"
said Fanny,
departing
to take a beauty sleep.

Polly instantly decided that she would n't borrow Becky's best bonnet,
as she at first intended,
but get a new one,
for in her present excited state,
no extravagance seemed too prodigal in honor of this grand occasion.

I am afraid that Maud's lesson was not as thorough as it should have been,
for Polly's head was such a chaos of bonnets,
gloves,
opera-cloaks and fans,
that Maud blundered through,
murdering time and tune at her own sweet will.

The instant it was over Polly rushed away and bought not only the kids but a bonnet frame,
a bit of illusion,
and a pink crape rose,
which had tempted her
for weeks in a certain shop window,
then home and
to work
with all the skill and speed of a distracted milliner.

"I
'm rushing madly into expense,
I
'm afraid,
but the fit is on me and I
'll eat bread and water
for a week
to make up
for it.

I must look nice,
for Tom seldom takes me and ought
to be gratified when he does.

I want
to do like other girls,
just
for once,
and enjoy myself without thinking about right and wrong.

Now a bit of pink ribbon
to tie it with,
and I shall be done in time
to do up my best collar,"
she said,
turning her boxes topsy-turvy
for the necessary ribbon in that delightful flurry which young ladies feel on such occasions.

It is my private opinion that the little shifts and struggles we poor girls have
to undergo beforehand give a peculiar relish
to our fun when we get it.

This fact will account
for the rapturous mood in which Polly found herself when,
after making her bonnet,
washing and ironing her best set,
blacking her boots and mending her fan,
she at last,
like Consuelo,
"put on a little dress of black silk"
and,
with the smaller adornments pinned up in a paper,
started
for the Shaws',
finding it difficult
to walk decorously when her heart was dancing in her bosom.

Maud happened
to be playing a redowa up in the parlor,
and Polly came prancing into the room so evidently spoiling
for a dance that Tom,
who was there,
found it impossible
to resist catching her about the waist,
and putting her through the most intricate evolutions till Maud's fingers gave out.

"That was splendid! Oh,
Tom,
thank you so much
for asking me to-night.

I feel just like having a regular good time,"
cried Polly,
when she stopped,
with her hat hanging round her neck and her hair looking as if she had been out in a high wind.

"Glad of it.

I felt so myself and thought we
'd have a jolly little party all in the family,"
said Tom,
looking much gratified at her delight.

"Is Trix sick?"
asked Polly.

"Gone
to New York
for a week."

"Ah,
when the cat's away the mice will play."

"Exactly.

Come and have another turn."

Before they could start,
however,
the awful spectacle of a little dog trotting out of the room
with a paper parcel in his mouth,
made Polly clasp her hands
with the despairing cry:

"My bonnet! Oh,
my bonnet!"
"Where?

what?

which?"
And Tom looked about him,
bewildered.

"Snip's got it.

Save it! save it!"
"I will!"
And Tom gave chase
with more vigor than discretion.

Snip,
evidently regarding it as a game got up
for his special benefit,
enjoyed the race immensely and scampered all over the house,
shaking the precious parcel like a rat while his master ran and whistled,
commanded and coaxed,
in vain.

Polly followed,
consumed
with anxiety,
and Maud laughed till Mrs. Shaw sent down
to know who was in hysterics.

A piteous yelp from the lower regions at last announced that the thief was captured,
and Tom appeared bearing Snip by the nape of the neck in one hand and Polly's cherished bonnet in the other.

"The little scamp was just going
to worry it when I grabbed him.

I
'm afraid he has eaten one of your gloves.

I can't find it,
and this one is pretty well chewed up,"
said Tom,
bereaving Snip of the torn kid,
to which he still pertinaciously clung.

"Serves me right,"
said Polly
with a groan.

"I
'd no business
to get a new pair,
but I wanted
to be extra gorgeous to-night,
and this is my punishment
for such mad extravagance."

"Was there anything else?"
asked Tom.

"Only my best cuffs and collar.

You
'll probably find them in the coal-bin,"
said Polly,
with the calmness of despair.

"I saw some little white things on the dining-room floor as I raced through.

Go get them,
Maud,
and we
'll repair damages,"
said Tom,
shutting the culprit into the boot closet,
where he placidly rolled himself up and went
to sleep.

"They ain't hurt a bit,"
proclaimed Maud,
restoring the lost treasures.

"Neither is my bonnet,
for which I
'm deeply grateful,"
said Polly,
who had been examining it
with a solicitude which made Tom's eyes twinkle.

"So am I,
for it strikes me that is an uncommonly
'nobby'
little affair,"
he said approvingly.

Tom had a weakness
for pale pink roses,
and perhaps Polly knew it.

"I
'm afraid it
's too gay,"
said Polly,
with a dubious look.

"Not a bit.

Sort of bridal,
you know.

Must be becoming.

Put it on and let
's see."

"I would n't
for the world,
with my hair all tumbling down.

Don't look at me till I
'm respectable,
and don't tell any one how I
've been acting.

I think I must be a little crazy to-night,"
said Polly,
gathering up her rescued finery and preparing
to go and find Fan.

"Lunacy is mighty becoming,
Polly.

Try it again,"
answered Tom,
watching her as she went laughing away,
looking all the prettier
for her dishevelment.

"Dress that girl up,
and she
'd be a raving,
tearing beauty,"
added Tom
to Maud in a lower tone as he look her into the parlor under his arm.

Polly heard it and instantly resolved
to be as
"raving and as tearing"
as her means would allow,
"just
for one night,"
she said as she peeped over the banisters,
glad
to see that the dance and the race had taken the
"band-boxy"
air out of Tom's elegant array.

I deeply regret being obliged
to shock the eyes and ears of such of my readers as have a prejudice in favor of pure English by expressions like the above,
but,
having rashly undertaken
to write a little story about Young America,
for Young America,
I feel bound
to depict my honored patrons as faithfully as my limited powers permit.

Otherwise,
I must expect the crushing criticism,
"Well,
I dare say it
's all very prim and proper,
but it is n't a bit like us,"
and never hope
to arrive at the distinction of finding the covers of
"An Old-Fashioned Girl"
the dirtiest in the library.

The friends had a social
"cup o'
tea"
upstairs,
which Polly considered the height of luxury,
and then each took a mirror and proceeded
to prink
to her heart's content.

The earnestness
with which Polly made her toilet that night was delightful
to behold.

Feeling in a daring mood,
she released her pretty hair from the braids in which she usually wore it and permitted the curls
to display themselves in all their brown abundance,
especially several dangerous little ones about the temples and forehead.

The putting on of the rescued collar and cuffs was a task which absorbed her whole mind.

So was the settling of a minute bit of court-plaster just
to the left of the dimple in her chin,
an unusual piece of coquetry in which Polly would not have indulged,
if an almost invisible scratch had not given her an excuse
for doing it.

The white,
down-trimmed cloak,
with certain imposing ornaments on the hood,
was assumed
with becoming gravity and draped
with much advancing and retreating before the glass,
as its wearer practised the true Boston gait,
elbows back,
shoulders forward,
a bend and a slide,
occasionally varied by a slight skip.

But when that bonnet went on,
Polly actually held her breath till it was safely landed and the pink rose bloomed above the smooth waves of hair
with what Fanny called
"a ravishing effect."

At this successful stage of affairs Polly found it impossible
to resist the loan of a pair of gold bands
for the wrists and Fanny's white fan
with the little mirror in the middle.

"I can put them in my pocket if I feel too much dressed,"
said Polly as she snapped on the bracelets,
but after a wave or two of the fan she felt that it would be impossible
to take them off till the evening was over,
so enticing was their glitter.

Fanny also lent her a pair of three-button gloves,
which completed her content,
and when Tom greeted her
with an approving,
"Here
's a sight
for gods and men! Why,
Polly,
you
're gorgeous!"
she felt that her
"fun"
had decidedly begun.

"Would n't Polly make a lovely bride?"
said Maud,
who was revolving about the two girls,
trying
to decide whether she would have a blue or a white cloak when she grew up and went
to operas.

"Faith,
and she would! Allow me
to congratulate you,
Mrs. Sydney,"
added Tom,
advancing
with his wedding-reception bow and a wicked look at Fanny.

"Go away! How dare you?"
cried Polly,
growing much redder than her rose.

"If we are going
to the opera to-night,
perhaps we
'd better start,
as the carriage has been waiting some time,"
observed Fan coolly,
and sailed out of the room in an unusually lofty manner.

"Don't you like it,
Polly?"
whispered Tom,
as they went down stairs together.

"Very much."

"The deuce you do!"
"I
'm so fond of music,
how can I help it?

"I
'm talking about Syd."

"Well,
I
'm not."

"You
'd better try
for him."

"I
'll think of it."

"Oh,
Polly,
Polly,
what are you coming to?"
"A tumble into the street,
apparently,"
answered Polly as she slipped a little on the step,
and Tom stopped in the middle of his laugh
to pilot her safely into the carriage,
where Fanny was already seated.

"Here
's richness!"
said Polly
to herself as she rolled away,
feeling as Cinderella probably did when the pumpkin-coach bore her
to the first ball,
only Polly had two princes
to think about,
and poor Cinderella,
on that occasion,
had not even one.

Fanny did n't seem inclined
to talk much,
and Tom would go on in such a ridiculous manner that Polly told him she would n't listen and began
to hum bits of the opera.

But she heard every word,
nevertheless,
and resolved
to pay him
for his impertinence as soon as possible by showing him what he had lost.

Their seats were in the balcony,
and hardly were they settled,
when,
by one of those remarkable coincidences which are continually occurring in our youth,
Mr. Sydney and Fanny's old friend Frank Moore took their places just behind them.

"Oh,
you villain! You did it on purpose,"
whispered Polly as she turned from greeting their neighbors and saw a droll look on Tom's face.

"I give you my word I did n't.

It
's the law of attraction,
don't you see?"
"If Fan likes it,
I don't care."

"She looks resigned,
I think."

She certainly did,
for she was talking and laughing in the gayest manner
with Frank while Sydney was covertly surveying Polly as if he did n't quite understand how the gray grub got so suddenly transformed into a white butterfly.

It is a well-known fact that dress plays a very important part in the lives of most women and even the most sensible cannot help owning sometimes how much happiness they owe
to a becoming gown,
gracefully arranged hair,
or a bonnet which brings out the best points in their faces and puts them in a good humor.

A great man was once heard
to say that what first attracted him
to his well-beloved wife was seeing her in a white muslin dress
with a blue shawl on the chair behind her.

The dress caught his eye,
and,
stopping
to admire that,
the wearer's intelligent conversation interested his mind,
and in time,
the woman's sweetness won his heart.

It is not the finest dress which does the most execution,
I fancy,
but that which best interprets individual taste and character.

Wise people understand this,
and everybody is more influenced by it than they know,
perhaps.

Polly was not very wise,
but she felt that every one about her found something more attractive than usual in her and modestly attributed Tom's devotion,
Sydney's interest,
and Frank's undisguised admiration,
to the new bonnet or,
more likely,
to that delightful combination of cashmere,
silk,
and swan's-down,
which,
like Charity's mantle,
seemed
to cover a multitude of sins in other people's eyes and exalt the little music teacher
to the rank of a young lady.

Polly scoffed at this sort of thing sometimes,
but to-night she accepted it without a murmur rather enjoyed it in fact,
let her bracelets shine before the eyes of all men,
and felt that it was good
to seem comely in their sight.

She forgot one thing,
however:

that her own happy spirits gave the crowning charm
to a picture which every one liked
to see a blithe young girl enjoying herself
with all her heart.

The music and the light,
costume and company,
excited Polly and made many things possible which at most times she would never have thought of saying or doing.

She did not mean
to flirt,
but somehow
"it flirted itself"
and she could n't help it,
for,
once started,
it was hard
to stop,
with Tom goading her on,
and Sydney looking at her
with that new interest in his eyes.

Polly's flirting was such a very mild imitation of the fashionable thing that Trix & Co.

would not have recognized it,
but it did very well
for a beginner,
and Polly understood that night wherein the fascination of it lay,
for she felt as if she had found a new gift all of a sudden,
and was learning how
to use it,
knowing that it was dangerous,
yet finding its chief charm in that very fact.

Tom did n't know what
to make of her at first,
though he thought the change uncommonly becoming and finally decided that Polly had taken his advice and was
"setting her cap
for Syd,"
as he gracefully expressed it.

Sydney,
being a modest man,
thought nothing of the kind,
but simply fancied that little Polly was growing up
to be a very charming woman.

He had known her since her first visit and had always liked the child;
this winter he had been interested in the success of her plans and had done what he could
to help them,
but he never thought of failing in love
with Polly till that night.

Then he began
to feel that he had not fully appreciated his young friend;
that she was such a bright and lovable girl,
it was a pity she should not always be gay and pretty,
and enjoy herself;
that she would make a capital wife
for somebody,
and perhaps it was about time
to think of
"settling,"
as his sister often said.

These thoughts came and went as he watched the white figure in front,
felt the enchantment of the music,
and found everybody unusually blithe and beautiful.

He had heard the opera many times,
but it had never seemed so fine before,
perhaps because he had never happened
to have had an ingenuous young face so near him in which the varying emotions born of the music,
and the romance it portrayed,
came and went so eloquently that it was impossible
to help reading them.

Polly did not know that this was why he leaned down so often
to speak
to her,
with an expression which she did not understand but liked very much nevertheless.

"Don't shut your eyes,
Polly.

They are so full of mischief to-night,
I like
to see them,"
said Tom,
after idly wondering
for a minute if she knew how long and curly her lashes were.

"I don't wish
to look affected,
but the music tells the story so much better than the acting that I don't care
to look on half the time,"
answered Polly,
hoping Tom would n't see the tears she had so cleverly suppressed.

"Now I like the acting best.

The music is all very fine,
I know,
but it does seem so absurd
for people
to go round telling tremendous secrets at the top of their voices.

I can't get used
to it."

"That
's because you
've more common-sense than romance.

I don't mind the absurdity,
and quite long
to go and comfort that poor girl
with the broken heart,"
said Polly
with a sigh as the curtain fell on a most affecting tableau.

"What's-his-name is a great jack not
to see that she adores him.

In real life we fellows ain't such bats as all that,"
observed Tom,
who had decided opinions on many subjects that he knew very little about,
and expressed them
with great candor.

A curious smile passed over Polly's face and she put up her glass
to hide her eyes,
as she said:

"I think you are bats sometimes,
but women are taught
to wear masks,
and that accounts
for it,
I suppose."

"I don't agree.

There
's precious little masking nowadays;
wish there was a little more sometimes,"
added Tom,
thinking of several blooming damsels whose beseeching eyes had begged him not
to leave them
to wither on the parent stem.

"I hope not,
but I guess there
's a good deal more than any one would suspect."

"What can you know about broken hearts and blighted beings?"
asked Sydney,
smiling at the girl's pensive tone.

Polly glanced up at him and her face dimpled and shone again,
as she answered,
laughing:

"Not much;
my time is
to come."

"I can't imagine you walking about the world
with your back hair down,
bewailing a hard-hearted lover,"
said Tom.

"Neither can I.

That would n't be my way."

"No;
Miss Polly would let concealment prey on her damask cheeks and still smile on in the novel fashion,
or turn sister of charity and nurse the heartless lover through small-pox,
or some other contagious disease,
and die seraphically,
leaving him
to the agonies of remorse and tardy love."

Polly gave Sydney an indignant look as he said that in a slow satirical way that nettled her very much,
for she hated
to be thought sentimental.

"That
's not my way either,"
she said decidedly.

"I
'd try
to outlive it,
and if I could n't,
I
'd try
to be the better
for it.

Disappointment need n't make a woman a fool."

"Nor an old maid,
if she
's pretty and good.

Remember that,
and don't visit the sins of one blockhead on all the rest of mankind,"
said Tom,
laughing at her earnestness.

"I don't think there is the slightest possibility of Miss Polly's being either,"
added Sydney
with a look which made it evident that concealment had not seriously damaged Polly's damask cheek as yet.

"There
's Clara Bird.

I have n't seen her but once since she was married.

How pretty she looks!"
and Polly retired behind the big glass again,
thinking the chat was becoming rather personal.

"Now,
there
's a girl who tried a different cure
for unrequited affection from any you mention.

People say she was fond of Belle's brother.

He did n't reciprocate but went off
to India
to spoil his constitution,
so Clara married a man twenty years older than she is and consoles herself by being the best-dressed woman in the city."

"That accounts
for it,"
said Polly,
when Tom's long whisper ended.

"For what?"
"The tired look in her eyes."

"I don't see it,"
said Tom,
after a survey through the glass.

"Did n't expect you would."

"I see what you mean.

A good many women have it nowadays,"
said Sydney over Polly's shoulder.

"What's she tired of?

The old gentleman?"
asked Tom.

"And herself,"
added Polly.

"You
've been reading French novels,
I know you have.

That
's just the way the heroines go on,"
cried Tom.

"I have n'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 Sydney,
as if he liked
to share all the nonsense going.

"One more."

"What do you call it?"
"The portrait of a gentleman."

And the little glass reflected a gratified face
for the space of two seconds.

"Thank you.

I
'm glad I don't disgrace my name,"
said Sydney,
looking down into the merry blue eyes that thanked him silently
for many of the small kindnesses that women never can forget.

"Very good,
Polly,
you are getting on fast,"
whispered Tom,
patting his yellow kids approvingly.

"Be quiet! Dear me,
how warm it is!"
And Polly gave him a frown that delighted his soul.

"Come out and have an ice,
we shall have time."

"Fan is so absorbed,
I could n't think of disturbing her,"
said Polly,
fancying that her friend was enjoying the evening as much as she was a great mistake,
by the way,
for Fan was acting
for effect,
and though she longed
to turn and join them,
would n't do it,
unless a certain person showed signs of missing her.

He did n't,
and Fanny chatted on,
raging inwardly over her disappointment,
and wondering how Polly could be so gay and selfish.

It was delicious
to see the little airs Polly put on,
for she felt as if she were somebody else,
and acting a part.

She leaned back,
as if quite oppressed by the heat,
permitted Sydney
to fan her,
and paid him
for the service by giving him a flower from her bouquet,
proceedings which amused Tom immensely,
even while it piqued him a little
to be treated like an old friend who did n't count.

"Go in and win,
Polly;
I
'll give you my blessing,"
he whispered,
as the curtain rose again.

"It
's only part of the fun,
so don't you laugh,
you disrespectful boy,"
she whispered back in a tone never used toward Sydney.

Tom did n't quite like the different way in which she treated them,
and the word
"boy"
disturbed his dignity,
for he was almost twenty-one and Polly ought
to treat him
with more respect.

Sydney at the same moment was wishing he was in Tom's place young,
comely,
and such a familiar friend that Polly would scold and lecture him in the delightful way she did Tom;
while Polly forgot them both when the music began and left them ample time
to look at her and think about themselves.

While they waited
to get out when all was over Polly heard Fan whisper
to Tom:

"What do you think Trix will say
to this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why,
the way you
've been going on to-night."

"Don't know,
and don't care;
it
's only Polly."

"That
's the very thing.

She can't bear P."

"Well,
I can;
and I don't see why I should n't enjoy myself as well as Trix."

"You
'll get
to enjoying yourself too much if you are n't careful.

Polly
's waked up."

"I
'm glad of it,
and so
's Syd."

"I only spoke
for your good."

"Don't trouble yourself about me;
I get lecturing enough in another quarter and can't stand any more.

Come,
Polly."

She took the arm he offered her,
but her heart was sore and angry,
for that phrase,
"It
's only Polly,"
hurt her sadly.

"As if I was n't anybody,
had n't any feelings,
and was only made
to amuse or work
for people! Fan and Tom are both mistaken and I
'll show them that Polly is awake,"
she thought,
indignantly.

"Why should n't I enjoy myself as well as the rest?

Besides,
it
's only Tom,"
she added
with a bitter smile as she thought of Trix.

"Are you tired,
Polly?"
asked Tom,
bending down
to look into her face.

"Yes,
of being nobody."

"Ah,
but you ain't nobody,
you
're Polly,
and you could n't better that if you tried ever so hard."

said Tom,
warmly,
for he really was fond of Polly,
and felt uncommonly so just then.

"I
'm glad you think so,
anyway.

It
's so pleasant
to be liked."

And she looked up
with her face quite bright again.

"I always did like you,
don't you know,
ever since that first visit."

"But you teased me shamefully,
for all that."

"So I did,
but I don't now."

Polly did not answer,
and Tom asked,
with more anxiety than the occasion required:

"Do I,
Polly?"
"Not in the same way,
Tom,"
she answered in a tone that did n't sound quite natural.

"Well,
I never will again."

"Yes,
you will,
you can't help it."

And Polly's eye glanced at Sydney,
who was in front
with Fan.

Tom laughed,
and drew Polly closer as the crowd pressed,
saying,
with mock tenderness:

"Did n't she like
to be chaffed about her sweethearts?

Well,
she shan't be if I can help it.

Poor dear,
did she get her little bonnet knocked into a cocked hat and her little temper riled at the same time?"
Polly could n't help laughing,
and,
in spite of the crush,
enjoyed the slow journey from seat
to carriage,
for Tom took such excellent care of her,
she was rather sorry when it was over.

They had a merry little supper after they got home,
and Polly gave them a burlesque opera that convulsed her hearers,
for her spirits rose again and she was determined
to get the last drop of fun before she went back
to her humdrum life again.

"I
've had a regularly splendid time,
and thank you ever so much,"
she said when the
"good-nights"
were being exchanged.

"So have I.

Let
's go and do it again to-morrow,"
said Tom,
holding the hand from which he had helped
to pull a refractory glove.

"Not
for a long while,
please.

Too much pleasure would soon spoil me,"
answered Polly,
shaking her head.

"I don't believe it.

Good-night,
'sweet Mistress Milton,'
as Syd called you.

Sleep like an angel,
and don't dream of I forgot,
no teasing allowed."

And Tom took himself off
with a theatrical farewell.

"Now it
's all over and done with,"
thought Polly as she fell asleep after a long vigil.

But it was not,
and Polly's fun cost more than the price of gloves and bonnet,
for,
having nibbled at forbidden fruit,
she had
to pay the penalty.

She only meant
to have a good time,
and there was no harm in that,
but unfortunately she yielded
to the various small temptations that beset pretty young girls and did more mischief
to others than
to herself.

Fanny's friendship grew cooler after that night.

Tom kept wishing Trix was half as satisfactory as Polly,
and Mr. Sydney began
to build castles that had no foundation.

CHAPTER XIII THE SUNNY SIDE
"I
'VE won the wager,
Tom."

"Did n't know there was one."

"Don't you remember you said Polly would be tired of her teaching and give it up in three months,
and I said she would n't?"
"Well,
is n't she?"
"Not a bit of it.

I thought she was at one time,
and expected every day
to have her come in
with a long face,
and say she could n't stand it.

But somehow,
lately,
she is always bright and happy,
seems
to like her work,
and don't have the tired,
worried look she used
to at first.

The three months are out,
so pay up,
Tommy."

"All right,
what will you have?"
"You may make it gloves.

I always need them,
and papa looks sober when I want money."

There was a minute's pause as Fan returned
to her practising,
and Tom relapsed into the reverie he was enjoying seated astride of a chair,
with his chin on his folded arMs. "Seems
to me Polly don't come here as often as she used to,"
he said,
presently.

"No,
she seems
to be very busy;
got some new friends,
I believe,
old ladies,
sewing-girls,
and things of that sort.

I miss her,
but know she
'll get tired of being goody,
and will come back
to me before long."

"Don't be too sure of that,
ma'am."

Something in Tom's tone made Fan turn round,
and ask,
"What do you mean?"
"Well,
it strikes me that Sydney is one of Polly's new friends.

Have n't you observed that she is uncommonly jolly,
and don't that sort of thing account
for it?"
"Nonsense!"
said Fanny,
sharply.

"Hope it is,"
coolly returned Tom.

"What put it into your head?"
demanded Fanny,
twirling round again so that her face was hidden.

"Oh,
well,
I keep meeting Syd and Polly circulating in the same directions;
she looks as if she had found something uncommonly nice,
and he looks as if all creation was getting Pollyfied pretty rapidly.

Wonder you have n't observed it."

"I have."

It was Tom's turn
to look surprised now,
for Fanny's voice sounded strange
to him.

He looked at her steadily
for a minute,
but saw only a rosy ear and a bent head.

A cloud passed over his face,
and he leaned his chin on his arm again
with a despondent whistle,
as he said
to himself,
"Poor Fan! Both of us in a scrape at once."

"Don't you think it would be a good thing?"
asked Fanny,
after playing a bar or two,
very badly.

"Yes,
for Syd."

"Not
for Polly?

Why,
he
's rich,
and clever,
and better than most of you good-for-nothing fellows.

What can the girl expect?"
"Can't say,
but I don't fancy the match myself."

"Don't be a dog in the manger,
Tom."

"Bless your little heart,
I only take a brotherly sort of interest in Polly.

She
's a capital girl,
and she ought
to marry a missionary,
or one of your reformer fellows,
and be a shining light of some sort.

I don't think setting up
for a fine lady would suit her."

"I think it would,
and I hope she
'll have the chance,"
said Fanny,
evidently making an effort
to speak kindly.

"Good
for you,
Fan!"
and Tom gave an emphatic nod,
as if her words meant more than she suspected
"Mind you,"
he added,
"I don't know anything,
and only fancied there might be some little flirtation going on.

But I dare say it
's nothing."

"Time will show."

Then Fan began
to sing,
and Tom's horse came,
so he departed
with the very unusual demonstration of a gentle pat on the head,
as he said kindly,
"That
's right,
my dear,
keep jolly."

It was n't an elegant way of expressing sympathy,
but it was hearty,
and Fan thanked him
for it,
though she only said,
"Don't break your neck,
Tommy."

When he was gone,
Fan's song ended as suddenly as it began,
and she sat thinking,
with varying expressions of doubt and trouble passing rapidly across her face.

"Well,
I can't do anything but wait!"
she said,
at last,
slamming the music-book together
with a desperate look.

"Yes,
I can,"
she added,
a minute after,
"it
's Polly's holiday.

I can go and see her,
and if there is anything in it I shall find it out."

Fanny dropped her face into her hands,
with a little shiver,
as she said that;
then got up,
looking as pale and resolute as if going
to meet some dreadful doom,
and putting on her things,
went away
to Polly's as fast as her dignity would allow.

Saturday morning was Polly's clearing-up day,
and Fan found her
with a handkerchief tied over her head,
and a big apron on,
just putting the last touches
to the tidy little room,
which was as fresh and bright as water,
air,
and a pair of hands could make it.

"All ready
for company.

I
'll just whisk off my regimentals,
and Polly,
the maid,
becomes Polly,
the missis.

It was lovely of you
to come early;
take off your things.

Another new bonnet?

you extravagant wretch! How is your mother and Maudie?

It
's a nice day,
and we
'll have a walk,
won't we?"
By the time Polly's welcome was uttered,
she had got Fan on the little sofa beside her,
and was smiling at her in such an infectious manner,
that Fan could n't help smiling back.

"I came
to see what you have been doing
with yourself lately.

You don't come and report,
and I got anxious about you,"
said Fanny,
looking into the clear eyes before her.

"I
've been so busy;
and I knew you would n't care
to hear about my doings,
for they are n't the sort you like,"
answered Polly.

"Your lessons did n't use
to take up all your time.

It
's my private opinion that you are taking as well as giving lessons,
miss,"
said Fan,
putting on a playfully stern air,
to hide her real anxiety.

"Yes,
I am,"
answered Polly,
soberly.

"In what?

Love?"
A quick color came
to Polly's cheeks,
as she laughed,
and said,
looking away,
"No;
friendship and good works."

"Oh,
indeed! May I ask who is your teacher?"
"I
've more than one;
but Miss Mills is head teacher."

"She instructs in good works;
who gives the friendship lessons?"
"Such pleasant girls! I wish you knew them,
Fan.

So clever,
and energetic,
and kind,
and happy,
it always does me good
to see them,"
cried Polly,
with a face full of enthusiasm.

"Is that all?"
And Fan gave her a curious look of mingled disappointment and relief.

"There,
I told you my doings would not interest you,
and they don't;
they sound flat and prosy after your brilliant adventures.

Let
's change the subject,"
said Polly,
looking relieved herself.

"Dear me,
which of our sweethearts sends us dainty bouquets of violets so early in the morning?"
asked Fanny,
suddenly spying the purple cluster in a graceful little vase on the piano.

"He sends me one every week;
he knows I love them so,"
and Polly's eyes turned that way full of pride and pleasure.

"I
'd no idea he was so devoted,"
said Fanny,
stooping
to smell the flowers,
and at the same time read a card that lay near them.

"You need n't plague me about it,
now you know it.

I never speak of our fondness
for one another,
because such things seem silly
to other people.

Will is n't all that Jimmy was
to me;
but he tries
to be,
and I love him dearly
for it."

"Will?"
Fanny's voice quite startled Polly,
it was so sharp and sudden,
and her face grew red and pale all in a minute,
as she upset the little vase
with the start she gave.

"Yes,
of course;
who did you think I meant?"
asked Polly,
sopping up the water before it damaged her piano.

"Never mind;
I thought you might be having a quiet little flirtation
with somebody.

I feel responsible,
you know,
because I told your mother I
'd look after you.

The flowers are all right.

My head aches so,
I hardly know what I
'm doing this morning."

Fanny spoke fast,
and laughed uncomfortably,
as she went back
to the sofa,
wondering if Polly had told her a lie.

Polly seemed
to guess at her thoughts as she saw the card,
and turning toward her,
she held it up,
saying,
with a conscious look in her eyes,
"You thought Mr. Sydney sent them?

Well,
you are mistaken,
and the next time you want
to know anything,
please ask straight out.

I like it better than talking at cross purposes."

"Now,
my dear,
don't be angry;
I was only teasing you in fun.

Tom took it into his foolish head that something was going on,
and I felt a natural interest,
you know."

"Tom! What does he know or care about my affairs?"
demanded Polly.

"He met you two in the street pretty often,
and being in a sentimental mood himself,
got up a romance
for you and Sydney."

"I
'm much obliged
to him
for his interest,
but it
's quite wasted,
thank you."

Fan's next proceeding gave her friend another surprise,
for,
being rather ashamed of herself,
very much relieved,
and quite at a loss what
to say,
she took refuge in an hysterical fit of tears,
which changed Polly's anger into tenderness at once.

"Is that the trouble she has been hiding all winter?

Poor dear,
I wish I
'd known it sooner,"
thought Polly,
as she tried
to soothe her
with comfortable pats,
sniffs of cologne and sympathizing remarks upon the subject of headache,
carefully ignoring that other feminine affliction,
the heartache.

"There,
I feel better.

I
've been needing a good cry
for some time,
and now I shall be all right.

Never mind it,
Polly,
I
'm nervous and tired;
I
've danced too much lately,
and dyspepsia makes me blue;"
and Fanny wiped her eyes and laughed.

"Of course it does;
you need rest and petting,
and here I
've been scolding you,
when I ought
to have been extra kind.

Now tell me what I can do
for you,"
said Polly,
with a remorseful face.

"Talk
to me,
and tell me all about yourself.

You don't seem
to have as many worries as other people.

What's the secret,
Polly?"
And Fan looked up
with wet eyes,
and a wistful face at Polly,
who was putting little dabs of cologne all over her head.

"Well,"
said Polly,
slowly,
"I just try
to look on the bright side of things;
that helps one amazingly.

Why,
you
've no idea how much goodness and sunshine you can get out of the most unpromising things,
if you make the best of them."

"I don't know how,"
said Fan,
despondently.

"You can learn;
I did.

I used
to croak and fret dreadfully,
and get so unhappy,
I was n't fit
for anything.

I do it still more than I ought,
but I try not to,
and it gets easier,
I find.

Get a-top of your troubles,
and then they are half cured,
Miss Mills says."

"Everything is so contrary and provoking,"
said Fanny,
petulantly.

"Now what in the world have you
to fret about?"
asked Polly,
rather anxiously.

"Quantities of things,"
began Fan,
and then stopped,
for somehow she felt ashamed
to own that she was afflicted because she could n't have a new set of furs,
go
to Paris in the spring,
and make Mr. Sydney love her.

She hunted up something more presentable,
and said in a despairing tone,
"Well,
mother is very poorly,
Tom and Trix quarrel all the time,
Maud gets more and more wilful every day,
and papa is worried about his affairs."

"A sad state of things,
but nothing very desperate.

Can't you lend a hand anywhere?

That might do good all round."

"No;
I have n't the talent
for managing people,
but I see what ought
to be done."

"Well,
don't wail about it;
keep yourself happy,
if you can;
it will help other people
to see you cheerful."

"Just what Tom said,'Keep jolly';
but,
dear me,
how can one,
when everything is so stupid and tiresome?"
"If ever a girl needed work,
it
's you!"
cried Polly.

"You began
to be a young lady so early,
that you are tired of everything at twenty-two.

I wish you
'd go at something,
then you
'd find how much talent and energy you really had."

"I know ever so many girls who are just like me,
sick
to death of fashionable life but don't know what
to take in its place.

I
'd like
to travel;
but papa says he can't afford it,
so I can only drag about and get on as I may."

"I pity you rich girls so much,
you have so many opportunities,
and don't seem
to know how
to use them! I suppose I should do just the same in your place,
but it seems now as if I could be very happy and useful
with plenty of money."

"You are that without it.

There,
I won't croak any more.

Let us go and take a good walk,
and don't you tell any one how I came and cried like a baby."

"Never!"
said Polly,
putting on her bonnet.

"I ought
to go and make calls,"
said Fanny,
"but I don't feel now as if I ever wanted
to see any of the girls again.

Dreadful state of mind,
is n't it?"
"Suppose you come and see some of my friends instead! They are not fine or ceremonious,
but lively,
odd,
and pleasant.

Come,
it will amuse you."

"I will,"
cried Fanny,
whose spirits seemed improved by the shower.

"Nice little old lady,
is n't she?"
added Fan,
as she caught sight of Miss Mills,
on their way out,
sitting at a table piled
with work,
and sewing away
with an energy that made the gray curls vibrate.

"Saint Mehitable,
I call her.

Now,
there is a rich woman who knew how
to get happiness out of her money,"
said Polly,
as they walked away.

"She was poor till she was nearly fifty;
then a comfortable fortune was left her,
and she knew just how
to use it.

That house was given her,
but instead of living in it all alone,
she filled it
with poor gentlefolks who needed neat,
respectable homes,
but could n't get anything comfortable
for their little money.

I
'm one of them,
and I know the worth of what she does
for me.

Two old widow ladies live below me,
several students overhead,
poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor,
and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills.

Each pays what they can;
that
's independent,
and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for,
and we feel her influence all through the house.

I
'd rather be married,
and have a home of my own;
but next
to that,
I should like
to be an old maid like Miss Mills."

Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh,
and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled.

What lovely eyes!"
whispered Fanny.

Yes,
that
's little Jane,"
returned Polly,
adding,
when she had passed,
with a nod and a friendly
"Don't get tired,
Jenny,"
"we help one another at our house,
and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes
for her own walk.

That gives his mother time
to rest,
does both the children good,
and keeps things neighborly.

Miss Mills suggested it,
and Jenny is so glad
to do anything
for anybody,
it
's a pleasure
to let her."

"I
've heard of Miss Mills before.

But I should think she would get tired
to death,
sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day,"
said Fanny,
after thinking over Jenny's story
for a few minutes,
for seeing the girl seemed
to bring it nearer,
and make it more real
to her.

"But she don't sit there all the time.

People come
to her
with their troubles,
and she goes
to them
with all sorts of help,
from soap and soup,
to shrouds
for the dead and comfort
for the living.

I go
with her sometimes,
and it is more exciting than any play,
to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor."

"How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds,
the bad air,
and the poverty that can't be cured?"
"But it is n't all dreadful.

There are good and lovely things among them,
if one only has eyes
to see them.

It makes me grateful and contented,
shows me how rich I am,
and keeps me ready
to do all I can
for these poor souls."

"My good Polly!"
and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze,
wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly.

"You have seen two of my new friends,
Miss Mills and Jenny,
now I
'll show you two more,"
said Polly,
presently,
as they reached a door,
and she led the way up several flights of public stairs.

"Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl,
full of talent;
she won't let us call it genius;
she will be famous some day,
I know,
she is so modest,
and yet so intent on her work.

Lizzie Small is an engraver,
and designs the most delightful little pictures.

Becky and she live together,
and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style.

This studio is their home,
they work,
eat,
sleep,
and live here,
going halves in everything.

They are all alone in the world,
but as happy and independent as birds;
real friends,
whom nothing will part."

"Let a lover come between them,
and their friendship won't last long,"
said Fanny.

"I think it will.

Take a look at them,
and you
'll change your mind,"
answered Polly,
tapping at a door,
on which two modest cards were tacked.

"Come in!"
said a voice,
and obeying,
Fanny found herself in a large,
queerly furnished room,
lighted from above,
and occupied by two girls.

One stood before a great clay figure,
in a corner.

This one was tall,
with a strong face,
keen eyes,
short,
curly hair,
and a fine head.

Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure,
though the one was not handsome,
and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered
with clay.

At a table where the light was clearest,
sat a frail-looking girl,
with a thin face,
big eyes,
and pale hair,
a dreamy,
absorbed little person,
who bent over a block,
skillfully wielding her tools.

"Becky and Bess,
how do you do?

This is my friend,
Fanny Shaw.

We are out on a rampage;
so go on
with your work,
and let us lazy ones look on and admire."

As Polly spoke,
both girls looked up and nodded,
smilingly;
Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair;
Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer,
with eyes that seemed
to see everything;
then each went on
with her work,
and all began
to talk.

"You are just what I want,
Polly.

Pull up your sleeve,
and give me an arm while you sit;
the muscles here are n't right,
and you
've got just what I want,"
said Becky,
slapping the round arm of the statue,
at which Fan was gazing
with awe.

"How do you get on?"
asked Polly,
throwing off her cloak,
and rolling up her sleeves,
as if going
to washing.

"Slowly.

The idea is working itself clear,
and I follow as fast as my hands can.

Is the face better,
do you think?"
said Becky,
taking off a wet cloth,
and showing the head of the statue.

"How beautiful it is!"
cried Fanny,
staring at it
with increased respect.

"What does it mean
to you?"
asked Rebecca,
turning
to her
with a sudden shine in her keen eyes.

"I don't know whether it is meant
for a saint or a muse,
a goddess or a fate;
but
to me it is only a beautiful woman,
bigger,
lovelier,
and more imposing than any woman I ever saw,"
answered Fanny,
slowly,
trying
to express the impression the statue made upon her.

Rebecca smiled brightly,
and Bess looked round
to nod approvingly,
but Polly clapped her hands,
and said,
"Well done,
Fan! I did n't think you
'd get the idea so well,
but you have,
and I
'm proud of your insight.

Now I
'll tell you,
for Becky will let me,
since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work.

Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be,
and Becky said she
'd show us her idea of the coming woman.

There she is,
as you say,
bigger,
lovelier,
and more imposing than any we see nowadays;
and at the same time,
she is a true woman.

See what a fine forehead,
yet the mouth is both firm and tender,
as if it could say strong,
wise things,
as well as teach children and kiss babies.

We could n't decide what
to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol.

What do you say?"
"Give her a sceptre:

she would make a fine queen,"
answered Fanny.

"No,
we have had enough of that;
women have been called queens a long time,
but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling,"
answered Rebecca.

"I don't think it is nowadays,"
said Fanny,
with a tired sort of sigh.

"Put a man's hand in hers
to help her along,
then,"
said Polly,
whose happy fortune it had been
to find friends and helpers in father and brothers.

"No;
my woman is
to stand alone,
and help herself,"
said Rebecca,
decidedly.

"She
's
to be strong-minded,
is she?"
and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words.

"Yes,
strong-minded,
strong-hearted,
strong-souled,
and strong-bodied;
that is why I made her larger than the miserable,
pinched-up woman of our day.

Strength and beauty must go together.

Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down,
these hands work well,
these eyes see clearly,
and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?"
Fanny was silent;
but a voice from Bess's corner said,
"Put a child in her arms,
Becky."

"Not that even,
for she is
to be something more than a nurse."

"Give her a ballot-box,"
cried a new voice,
and turning round,
they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them.

"Thank you
for the suggestion,
Kate.

I
'll put that
with the other symbols at her feet;
for I
'm going
to have needle,
pen,
palette,
and broom somewhere,
to suggest the various talents she owns,
and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right
to use them.

How goes it?"
and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand,
which the new-comer cordially shook.

"Great news,
girls! Anna is going
to Italy!"
cried Kate,
tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy.

"Oh,
how splendid! Who takes her?

Has she had a fortune left her?

Tell all about it,"
exclaimed the girls,
gathering round the speaker.

"Yes,
it is splendid;
just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good,
it is so generous and so deserved.

You know Anna has been longing
to go;
working and hoping
for a chance,
and never getting it,
till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired
to invite the girl
to go
with her
for several years
to Italy.

Think of the luck of that dear soul,
the advantages she
'll have,
the good it will do her,
and,
best of all,
the lovely way in which it comes
to her.

Miss Burton wants,
her as a friend,
asks nothing of her but her company,
and Anna will go through fire and water
for her,
of course.

Now,
is n't that fine?"
It was good
to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune.

Polly danced all over the room,
Bess and Becky hugged one another,
and Kate laughed
with her eyes full,
while even Fanny felt a glow of,
pride and pleasure at the kind act.

"Who is that?"
she whispered
to Polly,
who had subsided into a corner.

"Why,
it Is Kate King,
the authoress.

Bless me,
how rude not
to introduce you! Here,
my King,
is an admirer of yours,
Fanny Shaw,
and my well beloved friend,"
cried Polly,
presenting Fan,
who regarded the shabby young woman
with as much respect,
as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine;
for Kate had written a successful book by accident,
and happened
to be the fashion,
just then.

"It
's time
for lunch,
girls,
and I brought mine along
with me,
it
's so much jollier
to eat in sisterhood.

Let
's club together,
and have a revel,"
said Kate,
producing a bag of oranges,
and several big,
plummy buns.

"We
've got sardines,
crackers,
and cheese,"
said Bess,
clearing off a table
with all speed.

"Wait a bit,
and I
'll add my share,"
cried Polly,
and catching up her cloak,
she ran off
to the grocery store near by.

"You
'll be shocked at our performances,
Miss Shaw,
but you can call it a picnic,
and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do,"
said Rebecca,
polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy,
while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates,
and a flat shell or two.

"Let us have coffee
to finish off with;
put on the pot,
Bess,
and skim the milk,"
added Becky,
as she produced cups,
mugs,
and a queer little vase,
to supply drinking vessels
for the party.

"Here
's nuts,
a pot of jam,
and some cake.

Fan likes sweet things,
and we want
to be elegant when we have company,"
said Polly,
flying in again,
and depositing her share on the table.

"Now,
then,
fall to,
ladies,
and help yourselves.

Never mind if the china don't hold out;
take the sardines by their little tails,
and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins,"
said Kate,
setting the example
with such a relish,
that the others followed it in a gale of merriment.

Fanny had been
to many elegant lunches,
but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio;
for there was a freedom about it that was charming,
an artistic flavor
to everything,
and such a spirit of good-will and gayety,
that she felt at home at once.

As they ate,
the others talked and she listened,
finding it as interesting as any romance
to hear these young women discuss their plans,
ambitions,
successes,
and defeats.

It was a new world
to her,
and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress,
gossip,
pleasure,
or ennui.

They were girls still,
full of spirits fun,
and youth;
but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose,
which seemed
to ennoble her womanhood,
to give her a certain power,
a sustaining satisfaction,
a daily stimulus,
that led her on
to daily effort,
and in time
to some success in circumstance or character,
which was worth all the patience,
hope,
and labor of her life.

Fanny was just then in the mood
to feel the beauty of this,
for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning
to make her dissatisfied
with herself,
and the aimless life she led.

"Men must respect such girls as these,"
she thought;
"yes,
and love them too,
for in spite of their independence,
they are womanly.

I wish I had a talent
to live for,
if it would do as much
for me as it does
for them.

It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly,
that makes her society interesting
to Sydney,
and herself so dear
to every one.

Money can't buy these things
for me,
and I want them very much."

As these thoughts were passing through her mind,
Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed
with feminine enthusiasm and frankness.

Art,
morals,
politics,
society,
books,
religion,
housekeeping,
dress,
and economy,
for the minds and tongues roved from subject
to subject
with youthful rapidity,
and seemed
to get something from the dryest and the dullest.

"How does the new book come on?"
asked Polly,
sucking her orange in public
with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of
"Cranford."

"Better than it deserves.

My children,
beware of popularity;
it is a delusion and a snare;
it puffeth up the heart of man,
and especially of woman;
it blindeth the eyes
to faults;
it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim;
it is apt
to be capricious,
and just as one gets
to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught,
it suddenly faileth,
and one is left gasping,
like a fish out of water,"
and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine
with a penknife,
and eating it
with a groan.

"It won't hurt you much,
I guess;
you have worked and waited so long,
a large dose will do you good,"
said Rebecca,
giving her a generous spoonful of jam,
as if eager
to add as much sweetness as possible
to a life that had not been an easy one.

"When are you and Becky going
to dissolve partnership?"
asked Polly,
eager
for news of all.

"Never! George knows he can't have one without the other,
and has not suggested such a thing as parting us.

There is always room in my house
for Becky,
and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place,"
answered Bess,
with a look which her friend answered by a smile.

"The lover won't separate this pair of friends,
you see,"
whispered Polly
to Fan.

"Bess is
to be married in the spring,
and Becky is
to live
with her."

"By the way,
Polly,
I
've got some tickets
for you.

People are always sending me such things,
and as I don't care
for them,
I
'm glad
to make them over
to you young and giddy infants.

There are passes
for the statuary exhibition,
Becky shall have those,
here are the concert tickets
for you,
my musical girl;
and that is
for a course of lectures on literature,
which I
'll keep
for myself."

As Kate dealt out the colored cards
to the grateful girls,
Fanny took a good look at her,
wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success,
without paying such a heavy price
for them;
for Kate looked sick,
tired,
and too early old.

Then her eye went
to the unfinished statue,
and she said,
impulsively,
"I hope you
'll put that in marble,
and show us what we ought
to be."

"I wish I could!"
And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face,
as she saw her faulty work,
and felt how fair her model was.

For a minute,
the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful,
strong figure before them,
each longing
to see it done,
and each unconscious that she was helping,
by her individual effort and experience,
to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood,
not clay.

The city bells rung one,
and Polly started up.

"I must go,
for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two."

"I thought this was a holiday,"
said Fanny.

"So it is,
but this is a little labor of love,
and does n't spoil the day at all.

The child has talent,
loves music,
and needs help.

I can't give her money,
but I can teach her;
so I do,
and she is the most promising pupil I have.

Help one another,
is part of the religion of our sisterhood,
Fan."

"I must put you in a story,
Polly.

I want a heroine,
and you will do,"
said Kate.

"Me! why,
there never was such a humdrum,
unromantic thing as I am,"
cried Polly,
amazed.

"I
've booked you,
nevertheless,
so in you go;
but you may add as much romance as you like,
it
's time you did."

"I
'm ready
for it when it comes,
but it can't be forced,
you know,"
and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life,
for all its prosaic seeming.

Fanny was amused
to see that the girls did not kiss at parting,
but shook hands in a quiet,
friendly fashion,
looking at one another
with eyes that said more than the most
"gushing"
words.

"I like your friends very much,
Polly.

I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough,
or sentimental and conceited.

But they are simple,
sensible creatures,
full of talent,
and all sorts of fine things.

I admire and respect them,
and want
to go again,
if I may."

"Oh,
Fan,
I am so glad! I hoped you
'd like them,
I knew they
'd do you good,
and I
'll take you any time,
for you stood the test better than I expected.

Becky asked me
to bring you again,
and she seldom does that
for fashionable young ladies,
let me tell you."

"I want
to be ever so much better,
and I think you and they might show me how,"
said Fanny,
with a traitorous tremble in her voice.

"We
'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work,
and that is a useful lesson
for any one,
Miss Mills says,"
answered Polly,
hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich,
and what helpful friends girls may be
to one another.

CHAPTER XIV NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit,
Polly sat down before her fire
with a resolute and thoughtful aspect.

She pulled her hair down,
turned her skirt back,
put her feet on the fender,
and took Puttel into her lap,
all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got
to be thought over and settled.

Polly did not soliloquize aloud,
as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing,
but the conversation she held
with herself was very much like this:

"I
'm afraid there is something in it.

I
've tried
to think it
's nothing but vanity or imagination,
yet I can't help seeing a difference,
and feeling as if I ought not
to pretend that I don't.

I know it
's considered proper
for girls
to shut their eyes and let things come
to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done.

But I don't think it
's doing as we
'd be done by,
and it seems a great deal more honest
to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart.

The girls laughed at me when I said so,
and they declared that it would be a very improper thing
to do,
but I
've observed that they don't hesitate
to snub
'ineligible parties,'
as they call poor,
very young,
or unpopular men.

It
's all right then,
but when a nice person comes it
's part of the fun
to let him go on
to the very end,
whether the girls care
for him or not.

The more proposals,
the more credit.

Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions,
'How many birds have you bagged?'
as if men were partridges.

What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least.

I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us?

Mother says a great deal of it is owing
to bad education nowadays,
but some girls seem born
for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage
to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness.

I
'm afraid I
've got a spice of it,
and if I had the chance,
should be as bad as any of them.

I
've tried it and liked it,
and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun."

Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece,
which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire.

In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair,
cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled
with an expression of conscious power,
half proud,
half ashamed,
and as pretty
to see as the coquettish gesture
with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand.

For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head,
then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror,
saying,
with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone;
"Oh,
Puttel,
Puttel,
what a fool I am!"
Puss appeared
to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail,
and Polly returned
to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her.

"Just suppose it is true,
that he does ask me,
and I say yes! What a stir it would make,
and what fun it would be
to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard
to please,
and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them,
whether they chose
to marry him or not.

Trix has tried
for years
to fascinate him,
and he can't bear her,
and I
'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am.

Well,
I can't help it,
she does aggravate me so!"
And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon.

"It don't do
to think of her,
and I won't!"
said Polly
to herself,
setting her lips
with a grim look that was not at all becoming.

"What an easy life I should have plenty of money,
quantities of friends,
all sorts of pleasures,
and no work,
no poverty,
no cold shoulders or patched boots.

I could do so much
for all at home how I should enjoy that!"
And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted.

It was a very bright picture,
but something seemed amiss
with it,
for presently she sighed and shook her head,
thinking sorrowfully,
"Ah,
but I don't love him,
and I
'm afraid I never can as I ought! He
's very good,
and generous,
and wise,
and would be kind,
I know,
but somehow I can't imagine spending my life
with him;
I
'm so afraid I should get tired of him,
and then what should I do?

Polly Sydney don't sound well,
and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem
to fit me a bit.

Wonder how it would seem
to call him
'Arthur'?"
And Polly said it under her breath,
with a look over her shoulder
to be sure no one heard it.

"It
's a pretty name,
but rather too fine,
and I should n't dare
to say
'Syd,'
as his sister does.

I like short,
plain,
home-like names,
such as Will,
Ned,
or Tom.

No,
no,
I can never care
for him,
and it
's no use
to try!"
The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her,
and laying her head down on her knees,
she sat motionless
for many minutes.

When she looked up,
her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before;
a look of mingled pain and patience,
as if some loss had come
to her,
and left the bitterness of regret behind.

"I won't think of myself,
or try
to mend one mistake by making another,"
she said
with a heavy sigh.

"I
'll do what I can
for Fan,
and not stand between her and a chance of happiness.

Let me see,
how can I begin?

I won't walk
with him any more;
I
'll dodge and go roundabout ways,
so that we can't meet.

I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home
to dinner just as I go
to give the Roths their lesson.

The fact is,
I like
to meet him,
I am glad
to be seen
with him,
and put on airs,
I dare say,
like a vain goose as I am.

Well,
I won't do it any more,
and that will spare Fan one affliction.

Poor dear,
how I must have worried her all this time,
and never guessed it.

She has n't been quite as kind as ever;
but when she got sharp,
I fancied it was dyspepsia.

Oh,
me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this."

Here puss showed an amiable desire
to forgive and forget,
and Polly took her up,
saying aloud:

"Puttel,
when missis abuses you,
play it
's dyspepsia,
and don't bear malice,
because it
's a very trying disease,
my dear."

Then,
going back
to her thoughts,
she rambled on again;
"If he does n't take that hint,
I will give him a stronger one,
for I will not have matters come
to a crisis,
though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me
to try and
'bag a bird'
just
for the excitement and credit of the thing.

Polly,
I
'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say
to hear such expressions from you?

I
'd write and tell her all the worry,
only it would n't do any good,
and would only trouble her.

I
've no right
to tell Fan's secrets,
and I
'm ashamed
to tell mine.

No,
I
'll leave mother in peace,
and fight it out alone.

I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by.

He has known her all her life,
and has a good influence over her.

Love would do so much toward making her what she might be;
it
's a shame
to have the chance lost just because he happens
to see me.

I should think she
'd hate me;
but I
'll show her that she need n't,
and do all I can
to help her;
for she has been so good
to me nothing shall ever make me forget that.

It is a delicate and dangerous task,
but I guess I can manage it;
at any rate I
'll try,
and have nothing
to reproach myself
with if things do go
'contrary.'
"
What Polly thought of,
as she lay back in her chair,
with her eyes shut,
and a hopeless look on her face,
is none of our business,
though we might feel a wish
to know what caused a tear
to gather slowly from time
to time under her lashes,
and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat.

Was it regret
for the conquest she relinquished,
was it sympathy
for her friend,
or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart?

On Monday,
Polly began the
"delicate and dangerous task."

Instead of going
to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining,
she took a roundabout route through back streets,
and thus escaped Mr. Sydney,
who,
as usual,
came home
to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet.

Polly kept this up
for a week,
and by carefully avoiding the Shaws'
house during calling hours,
she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney,
who,
of course,
did n't visit her at Miss Mills'.

Minnie happened
to be poorly that week and took no lesson,
so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope,
and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off.

Now,
as Polly was by no means a perfect creature,
I am free
to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week,
for,
when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided,
she missed the pleasant little interviews that used
to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull,
hard-working days.

She liked Mr. Sydney very much,
for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he had treated the little girl
with a courtesy which the young woman gratefully remembered.

I don't think it was his wealth,
accomplishments,
or position that most attracted Polly,
though these doubtless possessed a greater influence than she suspected.

It was that indescribable something which women are quick
to see and feel in men who have been blessed
with wise and good mothers.

This had an especial charm
to Polly,
for she soon found that this side of his character was not shown
to every one.

With most girls,
he was very like the other young men of his set,
except perhaps in a certain grace of manner which was as natural
to him as his respect
for all womankind.

But
with Fanny and Polly he showed the domestic traits and virtues which are more engaging
to womanly women than any amount of cool intellect or worldly wisdom.

Polly had seen a good deal of him during her visits at the Shaws',
where he was intimate,
owing
to the friendship between Madam and his mother;
but she had never thought of him as a possible lover
for either Fanny or herself because he was six or eight years older than they,
and still sometimes assumed the part of a venerable mentor,
as in the early days.

Lately this had changed,
especially towards Polly,
and it flattered her more than she would confess even
to herself.

She knew he admired her one talent,
respected her independence,
and enjoyed her society;
but when something warmer and more flattering than admiration,
respect,
or pleasure crept into his manner,
she could not help seeing that one of the good gifts of this life was daily coming more and more within her reach,
and began
to ask herself if she could honestly receive the gift,
and reward the giver.

At first she tried
to think she could,
but unfortunately hearts are so
"contrary"
that they won't be obedient
to reason,
will,
or even gratitude.

Polly felt a very cordial friendship
for Mr. Sydney,
but not one particle of the love which is the only coin in which love can be truly paid.

Then she took a fancy into her head that she ought
to accept this piece of good fortune
for the sake of the family,
and forget herself.

But this false idea of self-sacrifice did not satisfy,
for she was not a fashionable girl trained
to believe that her first duty was
to make
"a good match"
and never mind the consequences,
though they rendered her miserable
for life.

Polly's creed was very simple:

"If I don't love him,
I ought not
to marry him,
especially when I do love somebody else,
though everything is against me."

If she had read as many French novels as some young ladies,
she might have considered it interesting
to marry under the circumstances and suffer a secret anguish
to make her a romantic victim.

But Polly's education had been neglected,
and after a good deal of natural indecision she did what most women do in such cases,
thought she would
"wait and see."

The discovery of Fanny's secret seemed
to show her something
to do,
for if the
"wait and see"
decision was making her friend unhappy,
it must be changed as soon as possible.

This finished Polly's indecision,
and after that night she never allowed herself
to dwell upon the pleasant temptation which came in a guise particularly attractive
to a young girl
with a spice of the old Eve in her composition.

So day after day she trudged through the dull back streets,
longing
for the sunny park,
the face that always brightened when it saw her coming,
and most of all the chance of meeting well,
it was n't Trix.

When Saturday came,
Polly started as usual
for a visit
to Becky and Bess,
but could n't resist stopping at the Shaws'
to leave a little parcel
for Fan,
though it was calling time.

As she stepped in,
meaning
to run up
for a word if Fanny should chance
to be alone,
two hats on the hall table arrested her.

"Who is here,
Katy?"
"Only Mr. Sydney and Master Tom.

Won't you stop a bit,
Miss Polly?"
"Not this morning,
I
'm rather in a hurry."

And away went Polly as if a dozen eager pupils were clamoring
for her presence.

But as the door shut behind her she felt so left out in the cold,
that her eyes filled,
and when Nep,
Tom's great Newfoundland,
came blundering after her,
she stopped and hugged his shaggy head,
saying softly,
as she looked into the brown,
benevolent eyes,
full of almost human sympathy:

"Now,
go back,
old dear,
you must n't follow me.

Oh,
Nep,
it
's so hard
to put love away when you want it very much and it is n'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 did n'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 endeavoring
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 could n'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 beside 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.

A glimpse of a motherly-looking lady entering a door,
received by a flock of pretty children,
who cast themselves upon mamma and her parcels
with cries of rapture,
did Polly good;
and when,
a minute after she passed a gray old couple walking placidly together in the sunshine,
she felt better still,
and was glad
to see such a happy ending
to the romance she had read all down the street.

As if the mischievous little god wished
to take Polly at a disadvantage,
or perhaps
to give her another chance,
just at that instant Mr. Sydney appeared at her side.

How he got there was never very clear
to Polly,
but there he was,
flushed,
and a little out of breath,
but looking so glad
to see her that she had n't the heart
to be stiff and cool,
as she had fully intended
to be when they met.

"Very warm,
is n't it?"
he said when he had shaken hands and fallen into step,
just in the old way.

"You seem
to find it so."

And Polly laughed,
with a sudden sparkle in her eyes.

She really could n't help it,
it was so pleasant
to see him again,
just when she was feeling so lonely.

"Have you given up teaching the Roths?"
asked Sydney,
changing the subject.

"No."

"Do you go as usual?"
"Yes."

"Well,
it
's a mystery
to me how you get there."

"As much as it is
to me how you got here so suddenly."

"I saw you from the Shaws'
window and took the liberty of running after you by the back street,"
he said,
laughing.

"That is the way I get
to the Roths,"
answered Polly.

She did not mean
to tell,
but his frankness was so agreeable she forgot herself.

"It
's not nearly so pleasant or so short
for you as the park."

"I know it,
but people sometimes get tired of old ways and like
to try new ones."

Polly did n't say that quite naturally,
and Sydney gave her a quick look,
as he asked;
"Do you get tired of old friends,
too,
Miss Polly?"
"Not often;
but
"
And there she stuck,
for the fear of being ungrateful or unkind made her almost hope that he would n't take the hint which she had been carefully preparing
for him.

There was a dreadful little pause,
which Polly broke by saying abruptly;
"How is Fan?"
"Dashing,
as ever.

Do you know I
'm rather disappointed in Fanny,
for she don't seem
to improve
with her years,"
said Sydney,
as if he accepted the diversion and was glad of it.

"Ah,
you never see her at her best.

She puts on that dashing air before people
to hide her real self.

But I know her better;
and I assure you that she does improve;
she tries
to mend her faults,
though she won't own it,
and will surprise you some day,
by the amount of heart and sense and goodness she has got."

Polly spoke heartily now,
and Sydney looked at her as if Fanny's defender pleased him more than Fanny's defence.

"I
'm very glad
to hear it,
and willingly take your word
for it.

Everybody shows you their good side,
I think,
and that is why you find the world such a pleasant place."

"Oh,
but I don't! It often seems like a very hard and dismal place,
and I croak over my trials like an ungrateful raven."

"Can't we make the trials lighter
for you?"
The voice that put the question was so very kind,
that Polly dared not look up,
because she knew what the eyes were silently saying.

"Thank you,
no.

I don't get more tribulation than is good
for me,
I fancy,
and we are apt
to make mistakes when we try
to dodge troubles."

"Or people,"
added Sydney in a tone that made Polly color up
to her forehead.

"How lovely the park looks,"
she said,
in great confusion.

"Yes,
it
's the pleasantest walk we have;
don't you think so?"
asked the artful young man,
laying a trap,
into which Polly immediately fell.

"Yes,
indeed! It
's always so refreshing
to me
to see a little bit of the country,
as it were,
especially at this season."

Oh,
Polly,
Polly,
what a stupid speech
to make,
when you had just given him
to understand that you were tired of the park! Not being a fool or a cox-comb,
Sydney put this and that together,
and taking various trifles into the account,
he had by this time come
to the conclusion that Polly had heard the same bits of gossip that he had,
which linked their names together,
that she did n't like it,
and tried
to show she did n't in this way.

He was quicker
to take a hint than she had expected,
and being both proud and generous,
resolved
to settle the matter at once,
for Polly's sake as well as his own.

So,
when she made her last brilliant remark,
he said quietly,
watching her face keenly all the while;
"I thought so;
well,
I
'm going out of town on business
for several weeks,
so you can enjoy your
'little bit of country'
without being annoyed by me."

"Annoyed?

Oh,
no!"
cried Polly earnestly;
then stopped short,
not knowing what
to say
for herself.

She thought she had a good deal of the coquette in her,
and I
've no doubt that
with time and training she would have become a very dangerous little person,
but now she was far too transparent and straightforward by nature even
to tell a white lie cleverly.

Sydney knew this,
and liked her
for it,
but he took advantage of it,
nevertheless by asking suddenly;
"Honestly,
now,
would n't you go the old way and enjoy it as much as ever,
if I was n't anywhere about
to set the busybodies gossiping?"
"Yes,"
said Polly,
before she could stop herself,
and then could have bitten her tongue out
for being so rude.

Another awful pause seemed impending,
but just at that moment a horseman clattered by
with a smile and a salute,
which caused Polly
to exclaim,
"Oh,
there
's Tom!"
with a tone and a look that silenced the words hovering on Sydney's lips,
and caused him
to hold out his hand
with a look which made Polly's heart flutter then and ache
with pity
for a good while afterward,
though he only said,
"Good by,
Polly."

He was gone before she could do anything but look up at him
with a remorseful face,
and she walked on,
feeling that the first and perhaps the only lover she would ever have,
had read his answer and accepted it in silence.

She did not know what else he had read,
and comforted herself
with the thought that he did not care
for her very much,
since he took the first rebuff so quickly.

Polly did not return
to her favorite walk till she learned from Minnie that
"Uncle"
had really left town,
and then she found that his friendly company and conversation was what had made the way so pleasant after all.

She sighed over the perversity of things in general,
and croaked a little over her trials in particular,
but on the whole got over her loss better than she expected,
for soon she had other sorrows beside her own
to comfort,
and such work does a body more good than floods of regretful tears,
or hours of sentimental lamentation.

She shunned Fanny
for a day or two,
but gained nothing by it,
for that young lady,
hearing of Sydney's sudden departure,
could not rest till she discovered the cause of it,
and walked in upon Polly one afternoon just when the dusk made it a propitious hour
for tender confidences.

"What have you been doing
with yourself lately?"
asked Fanny,
composing herself,
with her back toward the rapidly waning light.

"Wagging
to and fro as usual.

What's the news
with you?"
answered Polly,
feeling that something was coming and rather glad
to have it over and done with.

"Nothing particular.

Trix treats Tom shamefully,
and he bears it like a lamb.

I tell him
to break his engagement,
and not be worried so;
but he won't,
because she has been jilted once and he thinks it
's such a mean thing
to do."

"Perhaps she
'll jilt him."

"I
've no doubt she will,
if anything better comes along.

But Trix is getting pass,e,
and I should n't wonder if she kept him
to his word,
just out of perversity,
if nothing else."

"Poor Tom,
what a fate!"
said Polly
with what was meant
to be a comical groan;
but it sounded so tragical that she saw it would n't pass,
and hastened
to hide the failure by saying,
with a laugh,
"If you call Trix pass,e at twenty-three,
what shall we all be at twenty-five?"
"Utterly done with,
and laid upon the shelf.

I feel so already,
for I don't get half the attention I used
to have,
and the other night I heard Maud and Grace wondering why those old girls
'did n't stay at home,
and give them a chance.'
"
"How is Maudie?"
"Pretty well,
but she worries me by her queer tastes and notions.

She loves
to go into the kitchen and mess,
she hates
to study,
and said right before the Vincents that she should think it would be great fun
to be a beggar-girl,
to go round
with a basket,
it must be so interesting
to see what you
'd get."

"Minnie said the other day she wished she was a pigeon so she could paddle in the puddles and not fuss about rubbers."

"By the way,
when is her uncle coming back?"
asked Fanny,
who could n't wait any longer and joyfully seized the opening Polly made
for her.

"I
'm sure I don't know."

"Nor care,
I suppose,
you hard-hearted thing."

"Why,
Fan,
what do you mean?"
"I
'm not blind,
my dear,
neither is Tom,
and when a young gentleman cuts a call abruptly short,
and races after a young lady,
and is seen holding her hand at the quietest corner of the park,
and then goes travelling all of a sudden,
we know what it means if you don't."

"Who got up that nice idea,
I should like
to know?"
demanded Polly,
as Fanny stopped
for breath.

"Now don't be affected,
Polly,
but just tell me,
like a dear,
has n't he proposed?"
"No,
he has n't."

"Don't you think he means to?"
"I don't think he
'll ever say a word
to me."

"Well,
I am surprised!"
And Fanny drew a long breath,
as if a load was off her mind.

Then she added in a changed tone:

"But don't you love him,
Polly?"
"No."

"Truly?"
"Truly,
Fan."

Neither spoke
for a minute,
but the heart of one of them beat joyfully and the dusk hid a very happy face.

"Don't you think he cared
for you,
dear?"
asked Fanny,
presently.

"I don't mean
to be prying,
but I really thought he did."

"That
's not
for me
to say,
but if it is so,
it
's only a passing fancy and he
'll soon get over it."

"Do tell me all about it;
I
'm so interested,
and I know something has happened,
I hear it in your voice,
for I can't see your face."

"Do you remember the talk we once had after reading one of Miss Edgeworth's stories about not letting one's lovers come
to a declaration if one did n't love them?"
"Yes."

"And you girls said it was n't proper,
and I said it was honest,
anyway.

Well,
I always meant
to try it if I got a chance,
and I have.

Mind you,
I don't say Mr. Sydney loved me,
for he never said so,
and never will,
now,
but I did fancy he rather liked me and might do more if I did n't show him that it was of no use."

"And you did?"
cried Fanny,
much excited.

"I just gave him a hint and he took it.

He meant
to go away before that,
so don't think his heart is broken,
or mind what silly tattlers say.

I did n't like his meeting me so much and told him so by going another way.

He understood,
and being a gentleman,
made no fuss.

I dare say he thought I was a vain goose,
and laughed at me
for my pains,
like Churchill in
'Helen.'
"
"No,
he would n't;
He
'd like it and respect you
for doing it.

But,
Polly,
it would have been a grand thing
for you."

"I can't sell myself
for an establishment."

"Mercy! What an idea!"
"Well,
that
's the plain English of half your fashionable matches.

I
'm
'odd,'
you know,
and prefer
to be an independent spinster and teach music all my days."

"Ah,
but you won't.

You were made
for a nice,
happy home of your own,
and I hope you
'll get it,
Polly,
dear,"
said Fanny warmly,
feeling so grateful
to Polly,
that she found it hard not
to pour out all her secret at once.

"I hope I may;
but I doubt it,"
answered Polly in a tone that made Fanny wonder if she,
too,
knew what heartache meant.

"Something troubles you,
Polly,
what is it?

Confide in me,
as I do in you,"
said Fanny tenderly,
for all the coldness she had tried
to hide from Polly,
had melted in the sudden sunshine that had come
to her.

"Do you always?"
asked her friend,
leaning forward
with an irresistible desire
to win back the old-time love and confidence,
too precious
to be exchanged
for a little brief excitement or the barren honor of
"bagging a bird,"
to use Trix's elegant expression.

Fanny understood it then,
and threw herself into Polly's arms,
crying,
with a shower of grateful tears;
"Oh,
my dear! my d