Title:  An Old-fashioned Girl
Author:  Louisa May Alcott




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 owne