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An Old-Fashioned Girl

by Louisa May Alcott · English · Gutenberg #2787 · 568,287 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: An Old-Fashioned Girl

Author: Louisa May Alcott


        
Release date: August 1, 2001 [eBook #2787]
                Most recently updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2787

Credits: Produced by David Reed, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL ***




Produced by David Reed





AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL

By Louisa M. 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, ear-rings 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 blasé 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 Monsieur, 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 button-holes, 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 equanimity; but he did n't crow over her,
far from it; for he helped her with a paternal patience that made
her eyes twinkle with suppressed fun, as he soberly explained and
illustrated, unconsciously imitating Dominie Deane, till Polly found it
difficult to keep from laughing in his face.

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

“I'll come every evening, then. I'd like to, for I have n't studied a
bit since I came. You shall try and make me like algebra, and I'll try
and make you like Latin, will you?”

“Oh, I'd like it well enough, if there was any one explain it to me.
Old Deane puts us through double-quick, and don't give a fellow time to
ask questions when we read.”

“Ask your father; he knows.”

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

“Why not?”

“He'd pull my ears, and call me a'stupid,' or tell me not to worry
him.”

“I don't think he would. He's very kind to me, and I ask lots of
questions.”

“He likes you better than he does me.”

“Now, Tom! it's wrong of you to say so. Of course he loves you ever so
much more than he does me,” cried Polly, reprovingly.

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

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

“Why don't he give me my velocipede? He said, if I did well at school
for a month, I should have it; and I've been pegging away like fury for
most six weeks, and he don't do a thing about it. The girls get their
duds, because they tease. I won't do that anyway; but you don't catch me
studying myself to death, and no pay for it.”

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

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

“Oh, Tom! Did you say that? It's splendid! Jim and I used to say
Horatius together, and it was such fun. Do speak your piece to me, I do
so like 'Macaulay's Lays.'”

“It's dreadful long,” began Tom; but his face brightened, for Polly's
interest soothed his injured feelings, and he was glad to prove his
elocutionary powers. He began without much spirit; but soon the martial
ring of the lines fired him, and before he knew it, he was on his legs
thundering away in grand style, while Polly listened with kindling
face and absorbed attention. Tom did declaim well, for he quite forgot
himself, and delivered the stirring ballad with an energy that
made Polly flush and tingle with admiration and delight, and quite
electrified a second listener, who had heard all that went on, and
watched the little scene from behind his newspaper.

As Tom paused, breathless, and Polly clapped her hands enthusiastically,
the sound was loudly echoed from behind him. Both whirled round, and
there was Mr. Shaw, standing in the doorway, applauding with all his
might.

Tom looked much abashed, and said not a word; Polly ran to Mr. Shaw, and
danced before him, saying, eagerly, “Was n't it splendid? Did n't he do
well? May n't he have his velocipede now?”

“Capital, Tom; you'll be an orator yet. Learn another piece like that,
and I'll come and hear you speak it. Are you ready for your velocipede,
hey?”

Polly was right; and Tom owned that “the governor” was kind, did like
him and had n't entirely forgotten his promise. The boy turned red with
pleasure, and picked at the buttons on his jacket, while listening to
this unexpected praise; but when he spoke, he looked straight up in his
father's face, while his own shone with pleasure, as he answered, in one
breath, “Thankee, sir. I'll do it, sir. Guess I am, sir!”

“Very good; then look out for your new horse tomorrow, sir.” And Mr.
Shaw stroked the fuzzy red head with a kind hand, feeling a fatherly
pleasure in the conviction that there was something in his boy after
all.

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

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

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

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

They stepped aside, and he whizzed by, arms and legs going like mad,
with the general appearance of a runaway engine. It would have been a
triumphant descent, if a big dog had not bounced suddenly through one of
the openings, and sent the whole concern helter-skelter into the gutter.
Polly laughed as she ran to view the ruin, for Tom lay flat on his back
with the velocipede atop him, while the big dog barked wildly, and his
master scolded him for his awkwardness. But when she saw Tom's face,
Polly was frightened, for the color had all gone out of it, his eyes
looked strange and dizzy, and drops of blood began to trickle from a
great cut on his forehead. The man saw it, too, and had him up in a
minute; but he could n't stand, and stared about him in a dazed sort of
way, as he sat on the curbstone, while Polly held her handkerchief to
his forehead, and pathetically begged to know if he was killed.

“Don't scare mother, I'm all right. Got upset, did n't I?” he asked,
presently, eyeing the prostrate velocipede with more anxiety about its
damages than his own.

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

“Come on, then. Jove! how queer my head feels! Give us a boost, please.
Stop howling, Maud, and come home. You bring the machine, and I'll pay
you, Pat.” As he spoke, Tom slowly picked himself and steadying himself
by Polly's shoulder, issued commands, and the procession fell into
line. First, the big dog, barking at intervals; then the good-natured
Irishman, trundling “that divil of a whirligig,” as he disrespectfully
called the idolized velocipede; then the wounded hero, supported by the
helpful Polly; and Maud brought up the rear in tears, bearing Tom's cap.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Shaw was out driving with grandma, and Fanny was
making calls; so that there was no one but Polly to stand by Tom, for
the parlor-maid turned faint at the sight of blood, and the chamber-maid
lost her wits in the flurry. It was a bad cut, and must be sewed up
at once, the doctor said, as soon as he came. “Somebody must hold his
head;” he added, as he threaded his queer little needle.

“I'll keep still, but if anybody must hold me, let Polly. You ain't
afraid, are you?” asked Tom, with imploring look, for he did n't like
the idea of being sewed a bit.

Polly was just going to shrink away, saying, “Oh I can't!” when she
remembered that Tom once called her a coward. Here was a chance to prove
that she was n't; besides, poor Tom had no one else to help him; so she
came up to the sofa where he lay, and nodded reassuringly, as she put a
soft little hand on either side of the damaged head.

“You are a trump, Polly,” whispered Tom. Then he set his teeth, clenched
his hands, lay quite still, and bore it like a man. It was all over in
a minute or two, and when he had had a glass of wine, and was nicely
settled on his bed, he felt pretty comfortable, in spite of the pain in
his head; and being ordered to keep quiet, he said, “Thank you ever so
much, Polly,” and watched her with a grateful face as she crept away.

He had to keep the house for a week, and laid about looking very
interesting with a great black patch on his forehead. Every one'petted
him;' for the doctor said, that if the blow had been an inch nearer
the temple, it would have been fatal, and the thought of losing him so
suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at once. His father asked
him how he was a dozen times a day; his mother talked continually of
“that dear boy's narrow escape”; and grandma cockered him up with every
delicacy she could invent; and the girls waited on him like devoted
slaves. This new treatment had an excellent effect; for when neglected
Tom got over his first amazement at this change of base, he blossomed
out delightfully, as sick people do sometimes, and surprised his family
by being unexpectedly patient, grateful, and amiable. Nobody ever knew
how much good it did him; for boys seldom have confidences of this sort
except with their mothers, and Mrs. Shaw had never found the key to her
son's heart. But a little seed was sowed then that took root, and though
it grew very slowly, it came to something in the end. Perhaps Polly
helped it a little. Evening was his hardest time, for want of exercise
made him as restless and nervous as it was possible for a hearty lad to
be on such a short notice.

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

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

“I don't feel like stories to-night, Tom. I've told all I know, and
can't make up any more,” answered Polly, leaning her head on her hand
with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He watched her a
minute, and then asked, curiously, “What were you thinking about, just
now, when you sat staring at the fire, and getting soberer and soberer
every minute?

“I was thinking about Jimmy.”

“Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you would some
time; but don't, if you'd rather not,” said Tom, lowering his rough
voice respectfully.

“I like to talk about him; but there is n't much to tell,” began Polly,
grateful for his interest. “Sitting here with you reminded me of the
way I used to sit with him when he was sick. We used to have such happy
times, and it's so pleasant to think about them now.”

“He was awfully good, was n't he?”

“No, he was n't; but he tried to be, and mother says that is half the
battle. We used to get tired of trying; but we kept making resolutions,
and working hard to keep'em. I don't think I got on much; but Jimmy
did, and every one loved him.”

“Did n't you ever squabble, as we do?”

“Yes, indeed, sometimes; but we could n't stay mad, and always made it
up again as soon as we could. Jimmy used to come round first, and say,
'All serene, Polly,' so kind and jolly, that I could n't help laughing
and being friends right away.”

“Did he not know a lot?”

“Yes, I think he did, for he liked to study, and wanted to get on, so
he could help father. People used to call him a fine boy, and I felt so
proud to hear it; but they did n't know half how wise he was, because
he did n't show off a bit. I suppose sisters always are grand of their
brothers; but I don't believe many girls had as much right to be as I
had.”

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

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

“Why, what did he do?”

“Loved me dearly, and was n't ashamed to show it,” cried Polly, with a
sob in her voice, that made her answer very eloquent.

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

“He got hurt coasting, last winter; but he never told which boy did
it, and he only lived a week. I helped take care of him; and he was so
patient, I used to wonder at him, for he was in dreadful pain all time.
He gave me his books, and his dog, and his speckled hens, and his big
knife, and said, 'Good-by, Polly,' and kissed me the last thing and then
O Jimmy! Jimmy! If he only could come back!”

Poor Polly's eyes had been getting fuller and fuller, lips trembling
more and more, as she went on; when she came to that “good-by,” she
could n't get any further, but covered up her face, and cried as her
heart would break. Tom was full of sympathy, but did n't know how to
show it; so he sat shaking up the camphor bottle, and trying to think of
something proper and comfortable to say, when Fanny came to the rescue,
and cuddled Polly in her arms, with soothing little pats and whispers
and kisses, till the tears stopped, and Polly said, she “did n't mean
to, and would n't any more. I've been thinking about my dear boy all
the evening, for Tom reminds me of him,” she added, with a sigh.

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

“But you are in some ways.”

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

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

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

“Much you know about it,” growled Tom, lying down again, for he had sat
bolt upright when Polly made the astounding declaration that he was
like the well-beloved Jimmy. That simple little history had made a deep
impression on Tom, and the tearful ending touched the tender spot
that most boys hide so carefully. It is very pleasant to be loved and
admired, very sweet to think we shall be missed and mourned when we die;
and Tom was seized with a sudden desire to imitate this boy, who had n't
done anything wonderful, yet was so dear to his sister, that she cried
for him a whole year after he was dead; so studious and clever, the
people called him “a fine fellow”; and so anxious to be good, that he
kept on trying, till he was better even than Polly, whom Tom privately
considered a model of virtue, as girls go.

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

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

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

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

“Tom is such a bear,” retorted Fanny.

“I would n't say such things, for if anything should happen to either of
you, the other one would feel so sorry. Every cross word I ever said to
Jimmy comes back now, and makes me wish I had n't.”

Two great tears rolled down Polly's cheeks, and were quietly wiped away;
but I think they watered that sweet sentiment, called fraternal love,
which till now had been neglected in the hearts of this brother and
sister. They did n't say anything then, or make any plans, or confess
any faults; but when they parted for the night, Fanny gave the wounded
head a gentle pat (Tom never would have forgiven her if she had kissed
him), and said, in a whisper, “I hope you'll have a good sleep, Tommy,
dear.”

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

That was all; but it meant a good deal, for the voices were kind,
and the eyes met full of that affection which makes words of little
consequence. Polly saw it; and though she did n't know that she had
made the sunshine, it shone back upon her so pleasantly, that she fell
happily asleep, though her Jimmy was n't there to say “good-night.”




CHAPTER V. SCRAPES


AFTER being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round and
refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after Tom's mishap,
the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that grandma said she was
afraid “something was going to happen to them.” The dear old lady need
n't have felt anxious, for such excessive virtue does n't last long
enough to lead to translation, except with little prigs in the goody
story-books; and no sooner was Tom on his legs again, when the whole
party went astray, and much tribulation was the consequence.

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

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

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

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

Polly had her doubts about Fan's approval of that “sort of thing,” but
dared not say a word, and stood thinking how she used to show her father
the funny valentines the boys sent her, and how they laughed over them
together. But Mr. Shaw did not laugh when he had read the sentimental
verses accompanying the bouquet, and his face quite scared Polly, as he
asked, angrily, “How long has this nonsense been going on?”

“Indeed, sir, I don't know. Fan does n't mean any harm. I wish I had n't
said anything!” stammered Polly, remembering the promise given to Fanny
the day of the concert. She had forgotten all about it and had become
accustomed to see the “big boys,” as she called Mr. Frank and his
friends, with the girls on all occasions. Now, it suddenly occurred to
her that Mr. Shaw did n't like such amusements, and had forbidden Fan to
indulge in them. “Oh, dear! how mad she will be. Well, I can't help it.
Girls should n't have secrets from their fathers, then there would n't
be any fuss,” thought Polly, as she watched Mr. Shaw twist up the pink
note and poke it back among the flowers which he took from her, saying,
shortly, “Send Fanny to me in the library.”

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

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

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

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

“Don't be a goose. You've got me into a scrape, and you ought to help
me out.”

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

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

“Then I'd better not go down,” began Polly, when a stern voice from
below called, like Bluebeard, “Are you coming down?”

“Yes, sir,” answered a meek voice; and Fanny clutched Polly, whispering,
“You must come; I'm frightened out of my wits when he speaks like that.
Stand by me, Polly; there's a dear.”

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

Mr. Shaw stood on the rug, looking rather grim; the bouquet lay on the
table, and beside it a note, directed to “Frank Moore, Esq.,” in a very
decided hand, with a fierce-looking flourish after the “Esq.” Pointing
to this impressive epistle, Mr. Shaw said, knitting his black eyebrows
as he looked at Fanny, “I'm going to put a stop to this nonsense
at once; and if I see any more of it, I'll send you to school in a
Canadian convent.”

This awful threat quite took Polly's breath away; but Fanny had heard it
before, and having a temper of her own, said, pertly, “I'm sure I have
n't done anything so very dreadful. I can't help it if the boys send me
philopena presents, as they do to the other girls.”

“There was nothing about philopenas in the note. But that's not the
question. I forbid you to have anything to do with this Moore. He's not
a boy, but a fast fellow, and I won't have him about. You knew this, and
yet disobeyed me.”

“I hardly ever see him,” began Fanny.

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

“Oh, please, sir, don't ask me. I promised I would n't that is Fanny
will tell you,” cried Polly, quite red with distress at the predicament
she was in.

“No matter about your promise; tell me all you know of this absurd
affair. It will do Fanny more good than harm.” And Mr. Shaw sat down
looking more amiable, for Polly's dismay touched him.

“May I?” she whispered to Fanny.

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

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

“Oh, please, sir, don't blame Fan much, for she truly is n't half as
silly as Trix and the other, girls. She would n't go sleigh-riding,
though Mr. Frank teased, and she wanted to ever so much. She's sorry,
I know, and won't forget what you say any more, if you'll forgive her
this once,” cried Polly, very earnestly, when the foolish little story
was told.

“I don't see how I can help it, when you plead so well for her. Come
here, Fan, and mind this one thing; drop all this nonsense, and attend
to your books, or off you go; and Canada is no joke in winter time, let
me tell you.”

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

“They are going straight back where they came from, with a line from me,
which will keep that puppy from ever sending you any more.” Ringing
the bell, Mr. Shaw despatched the unfortunate posy, and then turned to
Polly, saying, kindly but gravely, “Set this silly child of mine a good
example and do your best for her, won't you?”

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

“Make her as like yourself as possible, my dear; nothing would please me
better. Now go, and let us hear no more of this folly.”

They went without a word, and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the affair; but
poor Polly did, for Fan scolded her, till Polly thought seriously of
packing up and going home next day. I really have n't the heart to
relate the dreadful lectures she got, the snubs she suffered, or the
cold shoulders turned upon her for several days after this. Polly's
heart was full, but she told no one, and bore her trouble silently,
feeling her friend's ingratitude and injustice deeply.

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

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

“Down stairs, seeing company.”

“Why did n't you go, too?”

“I don't like Trix, and I don't know her fine New York friends.”

“Don't want to, neither, why don't you say?”

“Not polite.”

“Who cares? I say, Polly, come and have some fun.”

“I'd rather read.”

“That is n't polite.”

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

“Does your head ache?” asked Polly.

“Awfully.”

“Better lie down, then.”

“Can't; I'm fidgety, and want to be'amoosed' as Pug says.”

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

“All right,” returned the perjured boy, who had discovered that a broken
head was sometimes more useful than a whole one, and exulting in his
base stratagem, he roved about the room, till Fan's bureau arrested him.
It was covered with all sorts of finery, for she had dressed in a hurry,
and left everything topsy-turvy. A well-conducted boy would have let
things alone, or a moral brother would have put things to rights; being
neither, Tom rummaged to his hearts content, till Fan's drawers looked
as if some one had been making hay in them. He tried the effect of
ear-rings, ribbons, and collars; wound up the watch, though it was n't
time; burnt his inquisitive nose with smelling-salts; deluged his grimy
handkerchief with Fan's best cologne; anointed his curly crop with her
hair-oil; powdered his face with her violet-powder; and finished off
by pinning on a bunch of false ringlets, which Fanny tried, to keep a
profound secret. The ravages committed by this bad boy are beyond
the power of language to describe, as he revelled in the interesting
drawers, boxes, and cases, which held his sister's treasures.

When the curls had been put on, with much pricking of fingers, and a
blue ribbon added, la Fan, he surveyed himself with satisfaction, and
considered the effect so fine, that he was inspired to try a still
greater metamorphosis. The dress Fan had taken off lay on a chair,
and into it got Tom, chuckling with suppressed laughter, for Polly
was absorbed, and the bed-curtains hid his iniquity. Fan's best velvet
jacket and hat, ermine muff, and a sofa-pillow for pannier, finished off
the costume, and tripping along with elbows out, Tom appeared before
the amazed Polly just as the chapter ended. She enjoyed the joke so
heartily, that Tom forgot consequences, and proposed going down into the
parlor to surprise, the girls.

“Goodness, no! Fanny never would forgive us if you showed her curls and
things to those people. There are gentlemen among them, and it would n't
be proper,” said Polly, alarmed at the idea.

“All the more fun. Fan has n't treated you well, and it will serve her
right if you introduce me as your dear friend, Miss Shaw. Come on, it
will be a jolly lark.”

“I would n't for the world; it would be so mean. Take'em off, Tom, and
I'll play anything else you like.”

“I ain't going to dress up for nothing; I look so lovely, someone must
admire me. Take me down, Polly, and see if they don't call me'a sweet
creature.'”

Tom looked so unutterably ridiculous as he tossed his curls and pranced,
that Polly went off into another gale of merriment; but even while she
laughed, she resolved not to let him mortify his sister.

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

“No, you're not.”

“How will you help it, Miss Prim?”

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

Tom was a pepper-pot as to temper, and anything like opposition always
had a bad effect. Forgetting his costume, he strode up to Polly, saying,
with a threatening wag of the head, “None of that. I won't stand it.”

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

“Won't promise anything. Give me that key, or I'll make you.”

“Now, Tom, don't be savage. I only want to keep you out of a scrape, for
Fan will be raging if you go. Take off her things, and I'll give up.”

Tom vouchsafed no reply, but marched to the other door, which was fast,
as Polly knew, looked out of the three-story window, and finding no
escape possible, came back with a wrathful face. “Will you give me that
key?”

“No, I won't,” said Polly, valiantly.

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

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

“I don't want to hurt you; but, by George! I won't stand this!”

Tom paused as Polly spoke, evidently ashamed of himself; but his temper
was up, and he would n't give in. If Polly had cried a little just
here, he would have yielded; unfortunately she giggled, for Tom's fierce
attitude was such a funny contrast to his dress that she could n't help
it. That settled the matter. No girl that ever lived should giggle at
him, much less lock him up like a small child. Without a word, he made
a grab at Polly's arm, for the hand holding the key was still in her,
pocket. With her other hand she clutched her frock, and for a minute
held on stoutly. But Tom's strong fingers were irresistible; rip went
the pocket, out came the hand, and with a cry of pain from Polly, the
key fell on the floor.

“It's your own fault if you're hurt. I did n't mean to,” muttered Tom,
as he hastily departed, leaving Polly to groan over her sprained wrist.
He went down, but not into the parlor, for somehow the joke seemed to
have lost its relish; so he made the girls in the kitchen laugh, and
then crept up the back way, hoping to make it all right with Polly. But
she had gone to grandma's room, for, though the old lady was out, it
seemed a refuge. He had just time to get things in order, when Fanny
came up, crosser than ever; for Trix had been telling her of all sorts
of fun in which she might have had a share, if Polly had held her
tongue.

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

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

Now, while this had been happening, Maud had been getting into hot
water also; for when her maid left her, to see a friend below, Miss Maud
paraded into Polly's room, and solaced herself with mischief. In an evil
hour Polly had let her play boat in her big trunk, which stood empty.
Since then Polly had stored some of her most private treasures in the
upper tray, so that she might feel sure they were safe from all eyes.
She had forgotten to lock the trunk, and when Maud raised the lid to
begin her voyage, several objects of interest met her eyes. She was deep
in her researches when Fan came in and looked over her shoulder, feeling
too cross with Polly to chide Maud.

As Polly had no money for presents, she had exerted her ingenuity
to devise all sorts of gifts, hoping by quantity to atone for any
shortcomings in quality. Some of her attempts were successful, others
were failures; but she kept them all, fine or funny, knowing the
children at home would enjoy anything new. Some of Maud's cast-off toys
had been neatly mended for Kitty; some of Fan's old ribbons and laces
were converted into dolls' finery; and Tom's little figures, whittled
out of wood in idle minutes, were laid away to show Will what could be
done with a knife.

“What rubbish!” said Fanny.

“Queer girl, is n't she?” added Tom, who had followed to see what was
going on.

“Don't you laugh at Polly's things. She makes nicer dolls than you, Fan;
and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom,” cried Maud.
“How do you know? I never saw her draw,” said Tom.

“Here's a book with lots of pictures in it. I can't wead the witing;
but the pictures are so funny.”

Eager to display her friend's accomplishments, Maud pulled out a fat
little book, marked “Polly's Journal,” and spread it in her lap.

“Only the pictures; no harm in taking a look at'em,” said Tom.

“Just one peep,” answered Fanny; and the next minute both were laughing
at a droll sketch of Tom in the gutter, with the big dog howling over
him, and the velocipede running away. Very rough and faulty, but so
funny, that it was evident Polly's sense of humor was strong. A few
pages farther back came Fanny and Mr. Frank, caricatured; then grandma,
carefully done; Tom reciting his battle-piece; Mr. Shaw and Polly in
the park; Maud being borne away by Katy; and all the school-girls turned
into ridicule with an unsparing hand.

“Sly little puss, to make fun of us behind our backs,” said Fan, rather
nettled by Polly's quiet retaliation for many slights from herself and
friends.

“She does draw well,” said Tom, looking critically at the sketch of a
boy with a pleasant face, round whom Polly had drawn rays like the sun,
and under which was written, “My dear Jimmy.”

“You would n't admire her, if you knew what she wrote here about you,”
 said Fanny, whose eyes had strayed to the written page opposite, and
lingered there long enough to read something that excited her curiosity.

“What is it?” asked Tom, forgetting his honorable resolves for a minute.

“She says, 'I try to like Tom, and when he is pleasant we do very well;
but he don't stay so long. He gets cross and rough, and disrespectful to
his father and mother, and plagues us girls, and is so horrid I almost
hate him. It's very wrong, but I can't help it.' How do you like that?”
 asked Fanny.

“Go ahead, and see how she comes down on you, ma'am,” retorted Tom, who
had read on a bit.

“Does she?” And Fanny continued, rapidly: “As for Fan, I don't think
we can be friends any more; for she told her father a lie, and won't
forgive me for not doing so too. I used to think her a very fine girl;
but I don't now. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I
should love her just the same; but she is n't kind to me; and though she
is always talking about politeness, I don't think it is polite to treat
company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare
say I am; but I should n't laugh at a girl's clothes because she was
poor, or keep her out of the way because she did n't do just as other
girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can't feel as I did; and
I'd go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and
I do love them dearly.”

“I say, Fan, you've got it now. Shut the book and come away,” cried
Tom, enjoying this broadside immensely, but feeling guilty, as well he
might.

“Just one bit more,” whispered Fanny, turning on a page or two, and
stopping at a leaf that was blurred here and there as if tears had
dropped on it.

“Sunday morning, early. Nobody is up to spoil my quiet time, and I must
write my journal, for I've been so bad lately, I could n't bear to do
it. I'm glad my visit is most done, for things worry me here, and there
is n't any one to help me get right when I get wrong. I used to envy
Fanny; but I don't now, for her father and mother don't take care of her
as mine do of me. She is afraid of her father, and makes her mother do
as she likes. I'm glad I came though, for I see money don't give
people everything; but I'd like a little all the same, for it is so
comfortable to buy nice things. I read over my journal just now, and
I'm afraid it's not a good one; for I have said all sorts of things
about the people here, and it is n't kind. I should tear it out, only I
promised to keep my diary, and I want to talk over things that puzzle me
with mother. I see now that it is my fault a good deal; for I have n't
been half as patient, and pleasant as I ought to be. I will truly try
for the rest of the time, and be as good and grateful as I can; for I
want them to like me, though I'm only'an old-fashioned country girl.'”

That last sentence made Fanny shut the book, with a face full of
self-reproach; for she had said those words herself, in a fit of
petulance, and Polly had made no answer, though her eyes filled and her
cheeks burned. Fan opened her lips to say something, but not a sound
followed, for there stood Polly looking at them with an expression they
had never seen before.

“What are you doing with my things?” she demanded, in a low tone, while
her eyes kindled and her color changed.

“Maud showed us a book she found, and we were just looking at the
pictures,” began Fanny, dropping it as if it burnt her fingers.

“And reading my journal, and laughing at my presents, and then putting
the blame on Maud. It's the meanest thing I ever saw; and I'll never
forgive you as long as I live!”

Polly said, this all in one indignant breath, and then as if afraid
of saying too much, ran out of the room with such a look of mingled
contempt, grief, and anger, that the three culprits stood dumb with
shame. Tom had n't even a whistle at his command; Maud was so scared at
gentle Polly's outbreak, that she sat as still as a mouse; while
Fanny, conscience stricken, laid back the poor little presents with a
respectful hand, for somehow the thought of Polly's poverty came over
her as it never had done before; and these odds and ends, so carefully
treasured up for those at home, touched Fanny, and grew beautiful in her
eyes. As she laid by the little book, the confessions in it reproached
her more sharply that any words Polly could have spoken; for she had
laughed at her friend, had slighted her sometimes, and been unforgiving
for an innocent offence. That last page, where Polly took the blame on
herself, and promised to “truly try” to be more kind and patient, went
to Fanny's heart, melting all the coldness away, and she could only lay
her head on the trunk, sobbing, “It was n't Polly's fault; it was all
mine.”

Tom, still red with shame at being caught in such a scrape, left Fanny
to her tears, and went manfully away to find the injured Polly, and
confess his manifold transgressions. But Polly could n't be found. He
searched high and low in every room, yet no sign of the girt appeared,
and Tom began to get anxious. “She can't have run away home, can she?”
 he said to himself, as he paused before the hat-tree. There was the
little round hat, and Tom gave it a remorseful smooth, remembering how
many times he had tweaked it half off, or poked it over poor Polly's
eyes. “Maybe she's gone down to the office, to tell pa. 'T is n't a bit
like her, though. Anyway, I'll take a look round the corner.”

Eager to get his boots, Tom pulled open the door of a dark closet under
the stairs, and nearly tumbled over backward with surprise; for there,
on the floor, with her head pillowed on a pair of rubbers, lay Polly
in an attitude of despair. This mournful spectacle sent Tom's penitent
speech straight out of his head, and with an astonished “Hullo!” he
stood and stared in impressive silence. Polly was n't crying, and lay
so still, that Tom began to think she might be in a fit or a faint,
and bent anxiously down to inspect the pathetic bunch. A glimpse of wet
eyelashes, a round cheek redder than usual, and lips parted by quick,
breathing, relieved his mind upon that point; so, taking courage, he sat
down on the boot-jack, and begged pardon like a man.

Now, Polly was very angry, and I think she had a right to be; but she
was not resentful, and after the first flash was over, she soon began to
feel better about it. It was n't easy to forgive; but, as she listened
to Tom's honest voice, getting gruff with remorse now and then, she
could n't harden her heart against him, or refuse to make up when he so
frankly owned that it “was confounded mean to read her book that way.”
 She liked his coming and begging pardon at once; it was a handsome thing
to do; she appreciated it, and forgave him in her heart some time before
she did with her lips; for, to tell the truth, Polly had a spice of
girlish malice, and rather liked to see domineering Tom eat humble-pie,
just enough to do him good, you know. She felt that atonement was
proper, and considered it no more than just that Fan should drench a
handkerchief or two with repentant tears, and that Tom should sit on
a very uncomfortable seat and call himself hard names for five or ten
minutes before she relented.

“Come, now, do say a word to a fellow. I'm getting the worst of it,
anyway; for there's Fan, crying her eyes out upstairs, and here are
you stowed away in a dark closet as dumb as a fish, and nobody but me to
bring you both round. I'd have cut over to the Smythes and got ma home
to fix things, only it looked like backing out of the scrape; so I did
n't,” said Tom, as a last appeal.

Polly was glad to hear that Fan was crying. It would do her good; but
she could n't help softening to Tom, who did seem in a predicament
between two weeping damsels. A little smile began to dimple the cheek
that was n't hidden, and then a hand came slowly out from under the
curly head, and was stretched toward him silently. Tom was just going
to give it a hearty shake, when he saw a red mark on the wrist, and knew
what made it. His face changed, and he took the chubby hand so gently,
that Polly peeped to see what it meant.

“Will you forgive that, too?” he asked, in a whisper, stroking the red
wrist.

“Yes, it don't hurt much now.” And Polly drew her hand away, sorry he
had seen it.

“I was a beast, that's what I was!” said Tom, in a tone of great
disgust. And just at that awkward minute down tumbled his father's
old beaver over his head and face, putting a comical quencher on his
self-reproaches. Of course, neither could help laughing at that; and
when he emerged, Polly was sitting up, looking as much better for her
shower as he did for his momentary eclipse.

“Fan feels dreadfully. Will you kiss and be friends, if I trot her
down?” asked Tom, remembering his fellow-sinner.

“I'll go to her.” And Polly whisked out of the closet as suddenly as
she had whisked in, leaving Tom sitting on the boot-jack, with a radiant
countenance.

How the girls made it up no one ever knew. But after much talking and
crying, kissing and laughing, the breach was healed, and peace declared.
A slight haze still lingered in the air after the storm, for Fanny
was very humble and tender that evening; Tom a trifle pensive, but
distressingly polite, and Polly magnanimously friendly to every one; for
generous natures like to forgive, and Polly enjoyed the petting after
the insult, like a very human girl.

As she was brushing her hair at bedtime there came a tap on her door
and, opening it, she beheld nothing but a tall black bottle, with a
strip of red flannel tied round it like a cravat, and a cocked-hat note
on the cork. Inside were these lines, written in a sprawling hand with
very black ink:

DEAR POLLY, Opydilldock is first-rate for sprains. You put a lot on the
flannel and do up your wrist, and I guess it will be all right in the
morning. Will you come a sleigh-ride tomorrow? I'm awful sorry I hurt
you.

TOM




CHAPTER VI. GRANDMA


“WHERE'S Polly?” asked Fan one snowy afternoon, as she came into the
dining-room where Tom was reposing on the sofa with his boots in the
air, absorbed in one of those delightful books in which boys are cast
away on desert islands, where every known fruit, vegetable and flower
is in its prime all the year round; or, lost in boundless forests, where
the young heroes have thrilling adventures, kill impossible beasts, and,
when the author's invention gives out, suddenly find their way home,
laden with tiger skins, tame buffaloes and other pleasing trophies of
their prowess.

“Dun no,” was Tom's brief reply, for he was just escaping from an
alligator of the largest size.

“Do put down that stupid book, and let's do something,” said Fanny,
after a listless stroll round the room.

“Hi, they've got him!” was the only answer vouchsafed by the absorbed
reader.

“Where's Polly?” asked Maud, joining the party with her hands full of
paper dolls all suffering for ball-dresses.

“Do get along, and don't bother me,” cried Tom exasperated at the
interruption.

“Then tell us where she is. I'm sure you know, for she was down here a
little while ago,” said Fanny.

“Up in grandma's room, maybe.”

“Provoking thing! you knew it all the time, and did n't tell, just to
plague us,” scolded Maud.

But Tom was now under water stabbing his alligator, and took no notice
of the indignant departure of the young ladies.

“Polly's always poking up in grandma's room. I don't see what fun there
is in it,” said Fanny as they went up stairs.

“Polly's a verwy queer girl, and gwandma pets her a gweat deal more
than she does me,” observed Maud, with an injured air.

“Let's peek and see what they are doing,” whispered Fan, pausing at the
half-open door.

Grandma was sitting before a quaint old cabinet, the doors of which
stood wide open, showing glimpses of the faded relics treasured there.
On a stool, at the old lady's feet, sat Polly, looking up with intent
face and eager eyes, quite absorbed in the history of a high-heeled
brocade shoe which lay in her lap.

“Well, my dear,” grandma was saying, “she had it on the very day that
Uncle Joe came in as she sat at work, and said, 'Dolly, we must be
married at once.' 'Very well, Joe,' says Aunt Dolly, and down she went
to the parlor, where the minister was waiting, never stopping to change
the dimity dress she wore, and was actually married with her scissors
and pin-ball at her side, and her thimble on. That was in war times,
1812, my dear, and Uncle Joe was in the army, so he had to go, and he
took that very little pin-ball with him. Here it is with the mark of
a bullet through it, for he always said his Dolly's cushion saved his
life.”

“How interesting that is!” cried Polly, as she examined the faded
cushion with the hole in it.

“Why, grandma, you never told me that story,” said Fanny, hurrying in,
finding the prospect was a pleasant one for a stormy afternoon.

“You never asked me to tell you anything, my dear, so I kept my old
stories to myself,” answered grandma, quietly.

“Tell some now, please. May we stay and see the funny things?” said Fan
and Maud, eyeing the open cabinet with interest.

“If Polly likes; she is my company, and I am trying to entertain
her, for I love to have her come,” said grandma, with her old-time
politeness.

“Oh, yes! do let them stay and hear the stories. I've often told them
what good times we have up here, and teased them to come, but they think
it's too quiet. Now, sit down, girls, and let grandma go on. You see I
pick out something in the cabinet that looks interesting, and then
she tells me about it,” said Polly, eager to include the girls in her
pleasures, and glad to get them interested in grandma's reminiscences,
for Polly knew how happy it made the lonely old lady to live over her
past, and to have the children round her.

“Here are three drawers that have not been opened yet; each take one,
and choose something from it for me to tell about,” said Madam, quite
excited at the unusual interest in her treasures.

So the girls each opened a drawer and turned over the contents till they
found something they wanted to know about. Maud was ready first, and
holding up an oddly shaped linen bag, with a big blue F embroidered on
it, demanded her story. Grandma smiled as she smoothed the old thing
tenderly, and began her story with evident pleasure.

“My sister Nelly and I went to visit an aunt of ours, when we were
little girls, but we did n't have a very good time, for she was
extremely strict. One afternoon, when she had gone out to tea, and old
Debby, the maid, was asleep in her room, we sat on the doorstep, feeling
homesick, and ready for any thing to amuse us.

“'What shall we do?' said Nelly.

“Just as she spoke, a ripe plum dropped bounce on the grass before us,
as if answering her question. It was all the plum's fault, for if it
had n't fallen at that minute, I never should have had the thought which
popped into my mischievous mind.

“'Let's have as many as we want, and plague Aunt Betsey, to pay her for
being so cross,' I said, giving Nelly half the great purple plum.

“'It would be dreadful naughty,' began Nelly, 'but I guess we will,' she
added, as the sweet mouthful slipped down her throat.

“'Debby's asleep. Come on, then, and help me shake,' I said, getting
up, eager for the fun.

“We shook and shook till we got red in the face, but not one dropped,
for the tree was large, and our little arms were not strong enough
to stir the boughs. Then we threw stones, but only one green and one
half-ripe one came down, and my last stone broke the shed window, so
there was an end of that.

“'It's as provoking as Aunt Betsey herself,' said Nelly, as we sat
down, out of breath.

“'I wish the wind would come and blow'em down for us,' panted I,
staring up at the plums with longing eyes.

“'If wishing would do any good, I should wish'em in my lap at once,'
added Nelly.

“'You might as well wish'em in your mouth and done with it, if you are
too lazy to pick'em up. If the ladder was n't too heavy we could try
that,' said I, determined to have them.

“'You know we can't stir it, so what is the use of talking about it? You
proposed getting the plums, now let's see you do it,' answered Nelly,
rather crossly, for she had bitten the green plum, and it puckered her
mouth.

“'Wait a minute, and you will see me do it,' cried I, as a new thought
came into my naughty head.

“'What are you taking your shoes and socks off for? You can't climb the
tree, Fan.'” 'Don't ask questions, but be ready to pick'em up when they
fall, Miss Lazybones.' “With this mysterious speech I pattered into
the house bare-footed and full of my plan. Up stairs I went to a window
opening on the shed roof. Out I got, and creeping carefully along till
I came near the tree, I stood up, and suddenly crowed like the little
rooster. Nelly looked up, and stared, and laughed, and clapped her hands
when she saw what I was going to do.

“'I'm afraid you'll slip and get hurt.'” 'Don't care if I do; I'll
have those plums if I break my neck doing it,' and half sliding, half
walking I went down the sloping roof, till the boughs of the tree were
within my reach.

“Hurrah!” cried Nelly, dancing down below, as my first shake sent a
dozen plums rattling round her.

“'Hurrah!” cried I, letting go one branch and trying to reach another.
But as I did so my foot slipped, I tried to catch something to hold by,
but found nothing, and with a cry, down I fell, like a very big plum on
the grass below.

“Fortunately the shed was low, the grass was thick and the tree broke my
fall, but I got a bad bump and a terrible shaking. Nelly thought I was
killed, and began to cry with her mouth full. But I picked myself up in
a minute, for I was used to such tumbles; and did n't mind the pain half
as much as the loss of the plums.

“'Hush! Debby will hear and spoil all the fun. I said I'd get'em and I
have. See what lots have come down with me.'” So there had, for my fall
shook the tree almost as much as it did me, and the green and purple
fruit lay all about us.

“By the time the bump on my forehead had swelled as big as a nut, our
aprons were half full, and we sat down to enjoy ourselves. But we did
n't. O dear, no! for many of the plums were not ripe, some were hurt by
the birds, some crushed in falling, and many as hard as stones. Nelly
got stung by a wasp, my head began to ache, and we sat looking at one
another rather dismally, when Nelly had a bright idea.

“'Let's cook'em, then they'll be good, and we can put some away in
our little pails for to-morrow.'” 'That will be splendid! There's a
fire in the kitchen, Debby always leaves the kettle on, and we can use
her saucepan, and I know where the sugar is, and we'll have a grand
time.' “In we went, and fell to work very quietly. It was a large,
open fire-place, with the coals nicely covered up, and the big kettle
simmering on the hook. We raked open the fire, put on the saucepan, and
in it the best of our plums, with water enough to spoil them. But we did
n't know that, and felt very important as we sat waiting for it to boil,
each armed with a big spoon, while the sugar box stood between us ready
to be used.

“How slow they were, to be sure! I never knew such obstinate things, for
they would n't soften, though they danced about in the boiling water,
and bobbed against the cover as if they were doing their best.

“The sun began to get low, we were afraid Debby would come down, and
still those dreadful plums would n't look like sauce. At last they began
to burst, the water got a lovely purple, we put lots of sugar in, and
kept tasting till our aprons and faces were red, and our lips burnt with
the hot spoons.

“'There's too much juice,' said Nelly, shaking her head wisely. 'It
ought to be thick and nice like mamma's.' “'I'll pour off some of the
juice, and we can drink it,' said I, feeling that I'd made a mistake in
my cooking.

“So Nelly got a bowl, and I got a towel and lifted the big saucepan
carefully off. It was heavy and hot, and I was a little afraid of it,
but did n't like to say so. Just as I began to pour, Debby suddenly
called from the top of the stairs, 'Children, what under the sun are you
doing?' It startled us both. Nelly dropped the bowl and ran. I dropped
the saucepan and did n't run, for a part of the hot juice splashed upon
my bare feet, and ankles, and made me scream with dreadful pain.

“Down rushed Debby to find me dancing about the kitchen with a great
bump on my forehead, a big spoon in my hand, and a pair of bright purple
feet. The plums were lying all over the hearth, the saucepan in the
middle of the room, the basin was broken, and the sugar swimming about
as if the bowl had turned itself over trying to sweeten our mess for us.

“Debby was very good to me, for she never stopped to scold, but laid
me down on the old sofa, and bound up my poor little feet with oil and
cotton wool. Nelly, seeing me lie white and weak, thought I was dying,
and went over to the neighbor's for Aunt Betsey, and burst in upon the
old ladies sitting primly at, their tea, crying, distractedly, 'Oh, Aunt
Betsey, come quick! for the saucepan fell off the shed, and Fan's feet
are all boiled purple!' Nobody laughed at this funny message, and Aunt
Betsey ran all the way home with a muffin in her hand and her ball in
her pocket, though the knitting was left behind.

“I suffered a great deal, but I was n't sorry afterward, for I learned
to love Aunt Betsey, who nursed me tenderly, and seemed to forget her
strict ways in her anxiety for me.

“This bag was made for my special comfort, and hung on the sofa where I
lay all those weary days. Aunt kept it full of pretty patchwork or, what
I liked better, ginger-nuts, and peppermint drops, to amuse me, though
she did n't approve of cosseting children up, any more than I do now.”

“I like that vewy well, and I wish I could have been there,” was Maud's
condescending remark, as she put back the little bag, after a careful
peep inside, as if she hoped to find an ancient ginger-nut, or a
well-preserved peppermint drop still lingering in some corner.

“We had plums enough that autumn, but did n't seem to care much about
them, after all, for our prank became a household joke, and, for years,
we never saw the fruit, but Nelly would look at me with a funny face,
and whisper, 'Purple stockings, Fan!'”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Polly. “Now, Fan, your turn next.”

“Well, I've a bundle of old letters, and I'd like to know if there
is any story about them,” answered Fanny, hoping some romance might be
forthcoming.

Grandma turned over the little packet tied up with a faded pink ribbon;
a dozen yellow notes written on rough, thick paper, with red wafers
still adhering to the folds, showing plainly that they were written
before the day of initial note-paper and self-sealing envelopes.

“They are not love-letters, deary, but notes from my mates after I left
Miss Cotton's boarding-school. I don't think there is any story about
them,” and grandma turned them over with spectacles before the dim eyes,
so young and bright when they first read the very same notes.

Fanny was about to say, “I'll choose again,” when grandma began to
laugh so heartily that the girls felt sure she had caught some merry old
memory which would amuse them.

“Bless my heart, I have n't thought of that frolic this forty years.
Poor, dear, giddy Sally Pomroy, and she's a great-grandmother now!”
 cried the old lady, after reading one of the notes, and clearing the
mist off her glasses.

“Now, please tell about her; I know it's something funny to make you
laugh so,” said Polly and Fan together.

“Well, it was droll, and I'm glad I remembered it for it's just the
story to tell you young things.

“It was years ago,” began grandma, briskly, “and teachers were very much
stricter than they are now. The girls at Miss Cotton's were not allowed
lights in their rooms after nine o'clock, never went out alone, and were
expected to behave like models of propriety from morning till night.

“As you may imagine, ten young girls, full of spirits and fun, found
these rules hard to keep, and made up for good behavior in public by all
sorts of frolics in private.

“Miss Cotton and her brother sat in the back parlor after school was
over, and the young ladies were sent to bed. Mr. John was very deaf,
and Miss Priscilla very near-sighted, two convenient afflictions for the
girls on some occasions, but once they proved quite the reverse, as you
shall hear.

“We had been very prim for a week, and our bottled up spirits could no
longer be contained; so we planed a revel after our own hearts, and set
our wits to work to execute it.

“The first obstacle was surmounted in this way. As none of us could get
out alone, we resolved to lower Sally from the window, for she was light
and small, and very smart.

“With our combined pocket-money she was to buy nuts and candy, cake and
fruit, pie, and a candle, so that we might have a light, after Betsey
took ours away as usual. We were to darken the window of the inner
chamber, set a watch in the little entry, light up, and then for a good
time.

“At eight o'clock on the appointed evening, several of us professed
great weariness, and went to our room, leaving the rest sewing
virtuously with Miss Cotton, who read Hannah More's Sacred Dramas aloud,
in a way that fitted the listeners for bed as well as a dose of opium
would have done.

“I am sorry to say I was one of the ringleaders; and as soon as we got
up stairs, produced the rope provided for the purpose, and invited Sally
to be lowered. It was an old-fashioned house, sloping down behind, and
the closet window chosen by us was not many feet from the ground.

“It was a summer evening, so that at eight o'clock it was still light;
but we were not afraid of being seen, for the street was a lonely one,
and our only neighbors two old ladies, who put down their curtains at
sunset, and never looked out till morning.

“Sally had been bribed by promises of as many'goodies' as she could
eat, and being a regular madcap, she was ready for anything.

“Tying the rope round her waist she crept out, and we let her safely
down, sent a big basket after her, and saw her slip round the corner in
my big sun bonnet and another girl's shawl, so that she should not be
recognized.

“Then we put our night-gowns over our dresses, and were laid peacefully
in bed when Betsey came up, earlier than usual; for it was evident that
Miss Cotton felt a little suspicious at our sudden weariness.

“For half an hour we lay laughing and whispering, as we waited for the
signal from Sally. At last we heard a cricket chirp shrilly under the
window, and flying up, saw a little figure below in the twilight.

“'O, quick! quick!' cried Sally, panting with haste. 'Draw up the basket
and then get me in, for I saw Mr. Cotton in the market, and ran all
the way home, so that I might get in before he came.' Up came the heavy
basket, bumping and scraping on the way, and smelling, O, so nice!
Down went the rope, and with a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all
together, we hoisted poor Sally half-way up to the window, when, sad to
tell, the rope slipped and down she fell, only being saved from broken
bones by the hay-cock under the window.

“'He's coming! he's coming! O pull me up, for mercy sake!' cried
Sally, scrambling to her feet unhurt, but a good deal shaken.

“We saw a dark figure approaching, and dragged her in with more bumping
and scraping, and embraced her with rapture, for we had just escaped
being detected by Mr. John, whose eyes were as sharp as his ears were
dull.

“We heard the front-door shut, then a murmur of voices, and then
Betsey's heavy step coming up stairs.

“Under the bed went the basket, and into the beds went the conspirators,
and nothing could have been more decorous than the appearance of the
room when Betsey popped her head in.

“'Master's an old fidget to send me travelling up again, just because
he fancied he saw something amiss at the window. Nothing but a curtain
flapping, or a shadder, for the poor dears is sleeping like lambs.' We
heard her say this to herself, and a general titter agitated the white
coverlets as she departed.

“Sally was in high feather at the success of her exploit, and danced
about like an elf, as she put her night-gown on over her frock, braided
her hair in funny little tails all over her head, and fastened the great
red pin-cushion on her bosom for a breast-pin in honor of the feast.

“The other girls went to their rooms as agreed upon, and all was soon
dark and still up stairs, while Miss Cotton began to enjoy herself
below, as she always did when'her young charges' were safely disposed
of.

“Then ghosts began to walk, and the mice scuttled back to their holes
in alarm, for white figures glided from room to room, till all were
assembled in the little chamber.

“The watch was set at the entry door, the signal agreed upon, the candle
lighted, and the feast spread forth upon a newspaper on the bed, with
the coverlet arranged so that it could be whisked over the refreshments
at a moment's notice.

“How good everything was, to be sure! I don't think I've eaten any
pies since that had such a delicious flavor as those broken ones, eaten
hastily, in that little oven of a room, with Sally making jokes and the
others enjoying stolen sweets with true girlish relish. Of course it was
very wicked, but I must tell the truth.

“We were just beginning on the cake when the loud scratching of a rat
disturbed us.

“'The signal! fly! run! hide! Hush, don't laugh!' cried several voices,
and we scuttled into bed as rapidly and noiselessly as possible, with
our mouths and hands full.

“A long pause, broken by more scratching; but as no one came, we decided
on sending to inquire what it meant. I went and found Mary, the picket
guard half asleep, and longing for her share of the feast.

“'It was a real rat; I've not made a sound. Do go and finish; I'm
tired of this,' said Mary, slapping away at the mosquitoes.

“Back I hurried with the good news. Every one flew up, briskly. We
lighted the candle again, and returned to our revel. The refreshments
were somewhat injured by Sally's bouncing in among them, bit we did n't
care, and soon finished the cake.

“'Now let's have the nuts,' I said, groping for the paper bag.

“'They are almonds and peanuts, so we can crack them with our teeth. Be
sure you get the bag by the right end,' said Sally.

“'I know what I'm about,' and to show her that it was all right, I
gave the bag a little shake, when out flew the nuts, rattling like a
hail-storm all over the uncarpeted floor.

“'Now you've done it,' cried Sally, as Mary scratched like a mad rat,
and a door creaked below, for Miss Cotton was not deaf.

“Such a flurry as we were in! Out went the candle, and each one rushed
away with as much of the feast as she could seize in her haste. Sally
dived into her bed, recklessly demolishing the last pie, and scattering
the candy far and wide.

“Poor Mary was nearly caught for Miss Cotton was quicker than Betsey,
and our guard had to run for her life.

“Our room was the first, and was in good order, though the two flushed
faces on the pillows were rather suspicious. Miss Cotton stood staring
about her, looking so funny, without her cap, that my bedfellow would
have gone off in a fit of laughter, if I had not pinched her warningly.

“'Young ladies, what is this unseemly noise?' No answer from us but
a faint snore. Miss Cotton marched into the next room, put the same
question and received the same reply.

“In the third chamber lay Sally, and we trembled as the old lady went
in. Sitting up, we peeped and listened breathlessly.

“'Sarah, I command you to tell me what this all means?' But Sally only
sighed in her sleep, and muttered, wickedly, 'Ma, take me home. I'm
starved at Cotton's.' 'Mercy on me! is the child going to have a fever?'
cried the old lady, who did not observe the tell tale nuts at her feet.

“'So dull, so strict! O take me home!' moaned Sally, tossing her arms
and gurgling, like a naughty little gypsy.

“That last bit of acting upset the whole concern, for as she tossed her
arms she showed the big red cushion on her breast. Near-sighted as she
was, that ridiculous object could not escape Miss Cotton, neither did
the orange that rolled out from the pillow, nor the boots appearing at
the foot of the bed.

“With sudden energy the old lady plucked off the cover, and there lay
Sally with her hair dressed, la Topsy, her absurd breast-pin and her
dusty boots, among papers of candy, bits of pie and cake, oranges and
apples, and a candle upside down burning a hole in the sheet.

“At the sound of Miss Cotton's horrified exclamation Sally woke up, and
began laughing so merrily that none of us could resist following her
example, and the rooms rang with merriment far many minutes. I really
don't know when we should have stopped if Sally had not got choked with
the nut she had in her mouth, and so frightened us nearly out of our
wits.”

“What became of the things, and how were you punished?” asked Fan, in
the middle of her laughter.

“The remains of the feast went to the pig, and we were kept on bread and
water for three days.”

“Did that cure you?”

“Oh, dear, no! we had half a dozen other frolics that very summer; and
although I cannot help laughing at the remembrance of this, you must not
think, child, that I approve of such conduct, or excuse it. No, no, my
dear, far from it.”

“I call that a tip-top story! Drive on, grandma, and tell one about
boys,” broke in a new voice, and there was Tom astride of a chair
listening and laughing with all his might, for his book had come to an
end, and he had joined the party unobserved.

“Wait for your turn, Tommy. Now, Polly, dear, what will you have?”
 said grandma, looking, so lively and happy, that it was very evident
“reminiscing” did her good.

“Let mine come last, and tell one for Tom next,” said Polly, looking
round, and beckoning him nearer.

He came and sat himself cross-legged on the floor, before the lower
drawer of the cabinet, which grandma opened for him, saying, with a
benign stroke of the curly head, “There, dear, that's where I keep the
little memorials of my brother Jack. Poor lad, he was lost at sea, you
know. Well, choose anything you like, and I'll try to remember a story
about it.”

Tom made a rapid rummage, and fished up a little broken pistol.

“There, that's the chap for me! Wish it was n't spoilt, then we'd have
fun popping away at the cats in the yard. Now, then, grandma.”

“I remember one of Jack's pranks, when that was used with great effect,”
 said grandma, after a thoughtful pause, during which Tom teased the
girls by snapping the lock of the pistol in their faces.

“Once upon a time,” continued Madam, much flattered by the row of
interested faces before her, “my father went away on business, leaving
mother, aunt, and us girls to Jack's care. Very proud he was, to be
sure, of the responsibility, and the first thing he did was to load that
pistol and keep it by his bed, in our great worriment, for we feared he
'd kill himself with it. For a week all went well; then we were startled
by the news that robbers were about. All sorts of stories flew through
the town (we were living in the country then); some said that certain
houses were marked with a black cross, and those were always robbed;
others, that there was a boy in the gang, for windows, so small that
they were considered safe, were entered by some little rogue. At one
place the thieves had a supper, and left ham and cake in the front yard.
Mrs. Jones found Mrs. Smith's shawl in her orchard, with a hammer and
an unknown teapot near it. One man reported that some one tapped at
his window, in the night, saying, softly, 'Is anyone here?' and when he
looked out, two men were seen to run down the road.

“We lived just out of town, in a lonely place; the house was old, with
convenient little back windows, and five outside doors. Jack was the
only man about the place, and he was barely thirteen. Mother and aunt
were very timid, and the children weren't old enough to be of any
use, so Jack and I were the home-guard, and vowed to defend the family
manfully.”

“Good for you! Hope the fellows came!” cried Tom, charmed with this
opening.

“One day, an ill-looking man came in and asked for food,” continued
grandma, with a mysterious nod; “and while he ate, I saw him glance
sharply about from the wooden buttons on the back-doors, to the silver
urn and tankards on the dining-room sideboard. A strong suspicion took
possession of me, and I watched him as a cat does a mouse.

“'He came to examine the premises, I'm sure of it, but we will be ready
for him,' I said, fiercely, as I told the family about him.

“This fancy haunted us all, and our preparations were very funny. Mother
borrowed a rattle, and kept it under her pillow. Aunt took a big bell
to bed with her; the children had little Tip, the terrier, to sleep in
their room; while Jack and I mounted guard, he with the pistol, and I
with a hatchet, for I did n't like fire-arms. Biddy, who slept in the
attic, practised getting out on the shed roof, so that she might run
away at the first alarm. Every night we arranged pit-falls for the
robbers, and all filed up to bed, bearing plate, money, weapons, and
things to barricade with, as if we lived in war times.

“We waited a week and no one came, so we began to feel rather slighted,
for other people got'a scare,' as Tom says, and after all our
preparations we really felt a trifle disappointed that we had had no
chance to show our courage. At last a black mark was found upon our
door, and a great panic ensued, for we felt that now our time had come.

“That night we put a tub of water at the bottom of the back-stairs, and
a pile of tin pans at the top of the front stairs, so that any attempt
to come up would produce a splash or a rattle. Bells were hung on door
handles, sticks of wood piled up in dark corners for robbers to fall
over, and the family retired, all armed and all provided with lamps and
matches.

“Jack and I left our doors open, and kept asking one another if we did
n't hear something, till he fell asleep. I was wakeful and lay listening
to the crickets till the clock struck twelve; then I got drowsy, and
was just dropping off when the sound of steps outside woke me up staring
wide awake. Creeping to the window I was in time to see by the dim
moonlight a shadow glide round the corner and disappear. A queer little
thrill went over me, but I resolved to keep quiet till I was sure
something was wrong, for I had given so many false alarms, I did n't
want Jack to laugh at me again. Popping my head out of the door, I
listened, and presently heard a scraping sound near the shed.

“'There they are; but I won't rouse the house till the bell rings or the
pans fall. The rogues can't go far without a clatter of some sort, and
if we could only catch one of them we should get the reward and a deal
of glory,' I said to myself, grasping my hatchet firmly.

“A door closed softly below, and a step came creeping towards the
back-stairs. Sure now of my prey, I was just about to scream 'Jack!'
when something went splash into the tub at the foot of the back-stairs.

“In a minute every one was awake and up, for Jack fired his pistol
before he was half out of bed, and roared 'Fire!' so loud it roused the
house. Mother sprung her rattle, aunt rang her bell, Jip barked like
mad, and we all screamed, while from below came up a regular Irish howl.

“Some one brought a lamp, and we peeped anxiously down, to see our own
stupid Biddy sitting in the tub wringing her hands and wailing dismally.

“'Och, murther, and it's kilt I am! The saints be about us! how iver
did I come forninst this say iv wather, just crapin in quiet afther
a bit iv sthroll wid Mike Mahoney, me own b'y, that's to marry me
intirely, come Saint Patrick's day nixt.' We laughed so we could hardly
fish the poor thing up, or listen while she explained that she had
slipped out of her window for a word with Mike, and found it fastened
when she wanted to come back, so she had sat on the roof, trying to
discover the cause of this mysterious barring out, till she was
tired, when she prowled round the house till she found a cellar window
unfastened, after all our care, and got in quite cleverly, she thought;
but the tub was a new arrangement which she knew nothing about; and when
she fell into the'say,' she was bewildered and could only howl.

“This was not all the damage either, for aunt fainted with the fright,
mother cut her hand with a broken lamp, the children took cold hopping
about on the wet stairs, Jip barked himself sick, I sprained my ankle,
and Jack not only smashed a looking-glass with his bullets, but spoilt
his pistol by the heavy charge put in it. After the damages were
repaired and the flurry was well over, Jack confessed that he had marked
the door for fun, and shut Biddy out as a punishment for'gallivanting,'
of which he did n't approve. Such a rogue as that boy was!'”

“But did n't the robbers ever come?” cried Tom, enjoying the joke, but
feeling defrauded of the fight.

“Never, my dear; but we had our'scare,' and tested our courage, and
that was a great satisfaction, of course,” answered grandma, placidly.

“Well, I think you were the bravest of the lot. I'd like to have seen
you flourishing round there with your hatchet,” added Tom, admiringly,
and the old lady looked as much pleased with the compliment as if she
had been a girl.

“I choose this,” said Polly, holding up a long white kid glove, shrunken
and yellow with time, but looking as if it had a history.

“Ah, that now has a story worth telling!” cried grandma; adding,
proudly, “Treat that old glove respectfully, my children, for
Lafayette's honored hand has touched it.”

“Oh, grandma, did you wear it? Did you see him? Do tell us all about it,
and that will be the best of the whole,” cried Polly, who loved history,
and knew a good deal about the gallant Frenchman and his brave life.

Grandma loved to tell this story, and always assumed her most imposing
air to do honor to her theme. Drawing herself up, therefore, she folded
her hands, and after two or three little “hems,” began with an absent
look, as if her eyes beheld a far-away time, which brightened as she
gazed.

“The first visit of Lafayette was before my time, of course, but I heard
so much about it from my grandfather that I really felt as if I'd seen
it all. Our Aunt Hancock lived in the Governor's house, on Beacon Hill,
at that time.” Here the old lady bridled up still more, for she was very
proud of “our aunt.” “Ah, my dears, those were the good old times!” she
continued, with a sigh. “Such dinners and tea parties, such damask
table cloths and fine plate, such solid, handsome furniture and elegant
carriages; aunt's was lined with red silk velvet, and when the coach
was taken away from her at the Governor's death, she just ripped out
the lining, and we girls had spencers made of it. Dear heart, how well
I remember playing in aunt's great garden, and chasing Jack up and down
those winding stairs; and my blessed father, in his plum-colored coat
and knee buckles, and the queue I used to tie up for him every day,
handing aunt in to dinner, looking so dignified and splendid.”

Grandma seemed to forget her story for a minute, and become a little
girl again, among the playmates dead and gone so many years. Polly
motioned the others to be quiet, and no one spoke till the old lady,
with a long sigh, came back to the present, and went on.

“Well, as I was saying, the Governor wanted to give a breakfast to the
French officers, and Madam, who was a hospitable soul, got up a splendid
one for them. But by some mistake, or accident, it was discovered at the
last minute that there was no milk.

“A great deal was needed, and very little could be bought or borrowed,
so despair fell upon the cooks and maids, and the great breakfast would
have been a failure, if Madam, with the presence of mind of her sex, had
not suddenly bethought herself of the cows feeding on the Common.

“To be sure, they belonged to her neighbors, and there was no time to
ask leave, but it was a national affair; our allies must be fed; and
feeling sure that her patriotic friends would gladly lay their cows on
the altar of their country, Madam Hancock covered herself with glory,
by calmly issuing the command, 'Milk'em!' It was done, to the great
astonishment of the cows, and the entire satisfaction of the guests,
among whom was Lafayette.

“This milking feat was such a good joke, that no one seems to have
remembered much about the great man, though one of his officers, a
count, signalized himself by getting very tipsy, and going to bed with
his boots and spurs on, which caused the destruction of aunt's best
yellow damask coverlet, for the restless sleeper kicked it into rags by
morning.

“Aunt valued it very much, even in its tattered condition, and kept it a
long while, as a memorial of her distinguished guests.

“The time when I saw Lafayette was in 1825, and there were no tipsy
counts then. Uncle Hancock (a sweet man, my dears, though some call him
mean now-a-days) was dead, and aunt had married Captain Scott.

“It was not at all the thing for her to do; however, that's neither
here nor there. She was living in Federal Street at the time, a most
aristocratic street then, children, and we lived close by.

“Old Josiah Quincy was mayor of the city, and he sent aunt word that the
Marquis Lafayette wished to pay his respects to her.

“Of course she was delighted, and we all flew about to make ready for
him. Aunt was an old lady, but she made a grand toilet, and was as
anxious to look well as any girl.”

“What did she wear?” asked Fan, with interest.

“She wore a steel-colored satin, trimmed with black lace, and on her cap
was pinned a Lafayette badge of white satin.

“I never shall forget how b-e-a-utifully she looked as she sat in state
on the front parlor sophy, right under a great portrait of her first
husband; and on either side of her sat Madam Storer and Madam Williams,
elegant to behold, in their stiff silks, rich lace, and stately turbans.
We don't see such splendid old ladies now-a-days.”

“I think we do sometimes,” said Polly, slyly.

Grandma shook her head, but it pleased her very much to be admired, for
she had been a beauty in her day.

“We girls had dressed the house with flowers; old Mr. Coolidge sent in a
clothes-basket full. Joe Joy provided the badges, and aunt got out some
of the Revolutionary wine from the old Beacon Street cellar.

“I wore my green and white palmyrine, my hair bowed high, the beautiful
leg-o'-mutton sleeves that were so becoming, and these very gloves.

“Well, by-and-by the General, escorted by the Mayor, drove up. Dear me,
I see him now! a little old man in nankeen trousers and vest, a long
blue coat and ruffled shirt, leaning on his cane, for he was lame, and
smiling and bowing like a true Frenchman.

“As he approached, the three old ladies rose, and courtesied with the
utmost dignity. Lafayette bowed first to the Governor's picture, then to
the Governor's widow, and kissed her hand.

“That was droll; for on the back of her glove was stamped Lafayette's
likeness, and the gallant old gentleman kissed his own face.

“Then some of the young ladies were presented, and, as if to escape any
further self-salutations, the marquis kissed the pretty girls on the
cheek.

“Yes, my dears, here is just the spot where the dear old man saluted me.
I'm quite as proud of it now as I was then, for he was a brave, good
man, and helped us in our trouble.

“He did not stay long, but we were very merry, drinking his health,
receiving his compliments, and enjoying the honor he did us.

“Down in the street there was a crowd, of course, and when he left they
wanted to take out the horses and drag him home in triumph. But he did
n't wish it; and while that affair was being arranged, we girls had been
pelting him with the flowers which we tore from the vases, the walls,
and our own topknots, to scatter over him.

“He liked that, and laughed, and waved his hand to us, while we ran, and
pelted, and begged him to come again.

“We young folks quite lost our heads that night, and I have n't a very
clear idea of how I got home. The last thing I remember was hanging out
of the window with a flock of girls, watching the carriage roll away,
while the crowd cheered as if they were mad.

“Bless my heart, it seems as if I heard'em now! 'Hurrah for Lafayette
and Mayor Quincy! Hurrah for Madam Hancock and the pretty girls! Hurrah
for Col. May!' 'Three cheers for Boston! Now, then! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah!'”

And here the old lady stopped, out of breath, with her cap askew, her
spectacles on the end of her nose, and her knitting much the worse for
being waved enthusiastically in the air, while she hung over the arm of
her chair, shrilly cheering an imaginary Lafayette. The girls clapped
their hands, and Tom hurrahed with all his might, saying, when he got
his breath, “Lafayette was a regular old trump; I always liked him.”

“My dear! what a disrespectful way to speak of that great man,” said
grandma, shocked at Young America's irreverence.

“Well, he was a trump, anyway, so why not call him one?” asked Tom,
feeling that the objectionable word was all that could be desired.

“What queer gloves you wore then,” interrupted Fanny, who had been
trying on the much-honored glove, and finding it a tight fit.

“Much better and cheaper than we have now,” returned grandma, ready
to defend “the good old times” against every insinuation. “You are an
extravagant set now-a-days, and I really don't know what you are coming
to. By the way, I've got somewhere two letters written by two young
ladies, one in 1517, and the other in 1868. The contrast between the two
will amuse you, I think.”

After a little search, grandma produced an old portfolio, and selecting
the papers, read the following letter, written by Anne Boleyn before
her marriage to Henry VIII, and now in the possession of a celebrated
antiquarian:

DEAR MARY, I have been in town almost a month, yet I cannot say I have
found anything in London extremely agreeable. We rise so late in the
morning, seldom before six o'clock, and sit up so late at night, being
scarcely in bed before ten, that I am quite sick of it; and was it not
for the abundance of fine things I am every day getting I should be
impatient of returning into the country.

My indulgent mother bought me, yesterday, at a merchant's in Cheapside,
three new shifts, that cost fourteen pence an ell, and I am to have a
pair of new stuff shoes, for my Lord of Norfolk's ball, which will be
three shillings.

The irregular life I have led since my coming to this place has quite
destroyed my appetite. You know I could manage a pound of bacon and a
tankard of good ale for my breakfast, in the country, but in London I
find it difficult to get through half the quantity, though I must own
I am generally eager enough for the dinner hour, which is here delayed
till twelve, in your polite society.

I played at hot cockles, last night, at my Lord of Leicester's. The Lord
of Surrey was there, a very elegant young man, who sung a song of
his own composition, on the “Lord of Kildare's Daughter.” It was much
approved, and my brother whispered me that the fair Geraldine, for so my
Lord of Surrey calls his sweetheart, is the finest woman of the age. I
should be glad to see her, for I hear she is good as she is beautiful.

Pray take care of the poultry during my absence. Poor things! I always
fed them myself; and if Margery has knitted me the crimson worsted
mittens, I should be glad if they were sent up the first opportunity.

Adieu, dear Mary. I am just going to mass, and you shall speedily have
the prayers, as you have now the kindest love of your own ANNE BOLEYN.

“Up before six, and think it late to go to bed at ten! What a
countrified thing Anne must have been. Bacon and ale for breakfast, and
dinner at twelve; how very queer to live so!” cried Fanny. “Lord Surrey
and Lord Leicester sound fine, but hot cockles, and red mittens, and
shoes for three shillings, are horrid.”

“I like it,” said Polly, thoughtfully, “and I'm glad poor Anne had a
little fun before her troubles began. May I copy that letter some time,
grandma?”

“Yes, dear, and welcome. Now, here's the other, by a modern girl on her
first visit to London. This will suit you better, Fan,” and grandma
read what a friend had sent her as a pendant to Anne's little picture of
London life long ago:

MY DEAREST CONSTANCE, After three months of intense excitement I snatch
a leisure moment to tell you how much I enjoy my first visit to London.
Having been educated abroad, it really seems like coming to a strange
city. At first the smoke, dirt and noise were very disagreeable, but
I soon got used to these things, and now find all I see perfectly
charming.

We plunged at once into a whirl of gayety and I have had no time to
think of anything but pleasure. It is the height of the season, and
every hour is engaged either in going to balls, concerts, theatres,
fetes and church, or in preparing for them. We often go to two or three
parties in an evening, and seldom get home till morning, so of course
we don't rise till noon next day. This leaves very little time for our
drives, shopping, and calls before dinner at eight, and then the evening
gayeties begin again.

At a ball at Lady Russell's last night, I saw the Prince of Wales, and
danced in the set with him. He is growing stout, and looks dissipated. I
was disappointed in him, for neither in appearance nor conversation was
he at all princely. I was introduced to a very brilliant and delightful
young gentleman from America. I was charmed with him, and rather
surprised to learn that he wrote the poems which were so much admired
last season, also that he is the son of a rich tailor. How odd these
Americans are, with their money, and talent, and independence!

O my dear, I must not forget to tell you the great event of my first
season. I am to be presented at the next Drawing Room! Think how
absorbed I must be in preparation for this grand affair. Mamma is
resolved that I shall do her credit, and we have spent the last two
weeks driving about from milliners to mantua-makers, from merchants to
jewellers. I am to wear white satin and plumes, pearls and roses. My
dress will cost a hundred pounds or more, and is very elegant.

My cousins and friends lavish lovely things upon me, and you will open
your unsophisticated eyes when I display my silks and laces, trinkets
and French hats, not to mention billet deux, photographs, and other
relics of a young belle's first season.

You ask if I ever think of home. I really have n't time, but I do
sometimes long a little for the quiet, the pure air and the girlish
amusements I used to enjoy so much. One gets pale, and old, and sadly
fagged out, with all this dissipation, pleasant as it is. I feel quite
blasé already.

If you could send me the rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and gay spirits I
always had at home, I'd thank you. As you cannot do that, please send
me a bottle of June rain water, for my maid tells me it is better than
any cosmetic for the complexion, and mine is getting ruined by late
hours.

I fancy some fruit off our own trees would suit me, for I have no
appetite, and mamma is quite desolate about me. One cannot live on
French cookery without dyspepsia, and one can get nothing simple here,
for food, like everything else, is regulated by the fashion.

Adieu, ma chere, I must dress for church. I only wish you could see my
new hat and go with me, for Lord Rockingham promised to be there.

Adieu, yours eternally, FLORENCE.

“Yes, I do like that better, and I wish I had been in this girl's place,
don't you, Polly?” said Fan, as grandma took off her glasses.

“I should love to go to London, and have a good time, but I don't think
I should care about spending ever so much money, or going to Court.
Maybe I might when I got there, for I do like fun and splendor,” added
honest Polly, feeling that pleasure was a very tempting thing.

“Grandma looks tired; let's go and play in the dwying-woom,” said Maud,
who found the conversation getting beyond her depth.

“Let us all kiss and thank grandma, for amusing us so nicely, before
we go,” whispered Polly. Maud and Fanny agreed, and grandma looked so
gratified by their thanks, that Tom followed suit, merely waiting till
“those girls” were out of sight, to give the old lady a hearty hug, and
a kiss on the very cheek Lafayette had saluted.

When he reached the play-room Polly was sitting in the swing, saying,
very earnestly, “I always told you it was nice up in grandma's room, and
now you see it is. I wish you'd go oftener; she admires to have you,
and likes to tell stories and do pleasant things, only she thinks you
don't care for her quiet sort of fun. I do, anyway, and I think she's
the kindest, best old lady that ever lived, and I love her dearly!”

“I did n't say she was n't, only old people are sort of tedious and
fussy, so I keep out of their way,” said Fanny.

“Well, you ought not to, and you miss lots of pleasant times. My mother
says we ought to be kind and patient and respectful to all old folks
just because they are old, and I always mean to be.”

“Your mother's everlastingly preaching,” muttered Fan, nettled by the
consciousness of her own shortcomings with regard to grandma.

“She don't preach!” cried Polly, firing up like a flash; “she only
explains things to us, and helps us be good, and never scolds, and I
'd rather have her than any other mother in the world, though she don't
wear velvet cloaks and splendid bonnets, so now!”

“Go it, Polly!” called Tom, who was gracefully hanging head downward
from the bar put up for his special benefit.

“Polly's mad! Polly's mad!” sung Maud, skipping rope round the room.

“If Mr. Sydney could see you now he would n't think you such an angel
any more,” added Fanny, tossing a bean-bag and her head at the same
time.

Polly was mad, her face was very red, her eyes very bright and her lips
twitched, but she held her tongue and began to swing as hard as she
could, fearing to say something she would be sorry for afterward. For a
few minutes no one spoke, Tom whistled and Maud hummed but Fan and Polly
were each soberly thinking of something, for they had reached an
age when children, girls especially, begin to observe, contrast, and
speculate upon the words, acts, manners, and looks of those about them.
A good deal of thinking goes on in the heads of these shrewd little
folks, and the elders should mind their ways, for they get criticised
pretty sharply and imitated very closely.

Two little things had happened that day, and the influence of a few
words, a careless action, was still working in the active minds of the
girls.

Mr. Sydney had called, and while Fanny was talking with him she saw his
eye rest on Polly, who sat apart watching the faces round her with the
modest, intelligent look which many found so attractive. At that minute
Madam Shaw came in, and stopped to speak to the little girl. Polly rose
at once, and remained standing till the old lady passed on.

“Are you laughing at Polly's prim ways?” Fanny had asked, as she saw Mr.
Sydney smile.

“No, I am admiring Miss Polly's fine manners,” he answered in a grave,
respectful tone, which had impressed Fanny very much, for Mr. Sydney
was considered by all the girls as a model of good breeding, and that
indescribable something which they called “elegance.”

Fanny wished she had done that little thing, and won that approving
look, for she valued the young man's good opinion, because it was
so hard to win, by her set at least. So, when Polly talked about old
people, it recalled this scene and made Fan cross.

Polly was remembering how, when Mrs. Shaw came home that day in her fine
visiting costume, and Maud ran to welcome her with unusual affection,
she gathered up her lustrous silk and pushed the little girl away
saying, impatiently, “Don't touch me, child, your hands are dirty.”
 Then the thought had come to Polly that the velvet cloak did n't cover
a right motherly heart, that the fretful face under the nodding purple
plumes was not a tender motherly face, and that the hands in the
delicate primrose gloves had put away something very sweet and precious.
She thought of another woman, whose dress never was too fine for little
wet cheeks to lie against, or loving little arms to press; whose face,
in spite of many lines and the gray hairs above it, was never sour or
unsympathetic when children's eyes turned towards it; and whose hands
never were too busy, too full or too nice to welcome and serve the
little sons and daughters who freely brought their small hopes and
fears, sins and sorrows, to her, who dealt out justice and mercy with
such wise love. “Ah, that's a mother!” thought Polly, as the memory
came warm into her heart, making her feel very rich, and pity Maud for
being so poor.

This it was that caused such sudden indignation at Fanny's dreadful
speech, and this it was that made quick-tempered Polly try to calm her
wrath before she used toward Fanny's mother the disrespectful tone she
so resented toward her own. As the swing came down after some dozen
quick journeys to and fro, Polly seemed to have found a smile somewhere
up aloft, for she looked toward Fan, saying pleasantly, as she paused
a little in her airy exercise, “I'm not mad now, shall I come and toss
with you?”

“No, I'll come and swing with you,” answered Fanny, quick to feel the
generous spirit of her friend.

“You are an angel, and I'll never be so rude again,” she added, as
Polly's arm came round her, and half the seat was gladly offered.

“No, I ain't; but if I ever get at all like one, it will be'mother's
preaching' that did it,” said Polly, with a happy laugh.

“Good for you, Polly Peacemaker,” cried Tom, quoting his father, and
giving them a grand push as the most appropriate way of expressing his
approbation of the sentiment.

Nothing more was said; but from that day there slowly crept into the
family more respect for grandma, more forbearance with her infirmities,
more interest in her little stories, and many a pleasant gossip did the
dear old lady enjoy with the children as they gathered round her fire,
solitary so long.




CHAPTER VII. GOOD-BY


“OH, dear! Must you really go home Saturday?” said Fan, some days after
what Tom called the “grand scrimmage.”

“I really must; for I only came to stay a month and here I've been
nearly six weeks,” answered Polly, feeling as if she had been absent a
year.

“Make it two months and stay over Christmas. Come, do, now,” urged Tom,
heartily.

“You are very kind; but I would n't miss Christmas at home for anything.
Besides, mother says they can't possibly do without me.”

“Neither can we. Can't you tease your mother, and make up your mind to
stay?” began Fan.

“Polly never teases. She says it's selfish; and I don't do it now
much,” put in Maud, with a virtuous air.

“Don't you bother Polly. She'd rather go, and I don't wonder. Let's be
just as jolly as we can while she stays, and finish up with your party,
Fan,” said Tom, in a tone that settled the matter.

Polly had expected to be very happy in getting ready for the party; but
when the time came, she was disappointed; for somehow that naughty thing
called envy took possession of her, and spoiled her pleasure. Before she
left home, she thought her new white muslin dress, with its fresh blue
ribbons, the most elegant and proper costume she could have; but
now, when she saw Fanny's pink silk, with a white tarlatan tunic, and
innumerable puffings, bows, and streamers, her own simple little
toilet lost all its charms in her eyes, and looked very babyish and
old-fashioned.

Even Maud was much better dressed than herself, and looked very splendid
in her cherry-colored and white suit, with a sash so big she could
hardly carry it, and little white boots with red buttons. They both
had necklaces and bracelets, ear-rings and brooches; but Polly had no
ornament, except the plain locket on a bit of blue velvet. Her sash was
only a wide ribbon, tied in a simple bow, and nothing but a blue snood
in the pretty curls. Her only comfort was the knowledge that the modest
tucker drawn up round the plump shoulders was real lace, and that her
bronze boots cost nine dollars.

Poor Polly, with all her efforts to be contented, and not to mind
looking unlike other people, found it hard work to keep her face bright
and her voice happy that night. No one dreamed what was going an under
the muslin frock, till grandma's wise old eyes spied out the little
shadow on Polly's spirits, and guessed the cause of it. When dressed,
the three girls went up to show themselves to the elders, who were in
grandma's room, where Tom was being helped into an agonizingly stiff
collar.

Maud pranced like a small peacock, and Fan made a splendid courtesy as
every one turned to survey them; but Polly stood still, and her eyes
went from face to face, with an anxious, wistful air, which seemed to
say, “I know I'm not right; but I hope I don't look very bad.”

Grandma read the look in a minute; and when Fanny said, with a satisfied
smile, “How do we look?” she answered, drawing Polly toward her so
kindly.

“Very like the fashion-plates you got the patterns of your dresses from.
But this little costume suits me best.”

“Do you really think I look nice?” and Polly's face brightened, for she
valued the old lady's opinion very much.

“Yes, my dear; you look just as I like to see a child of your age look.
What particularly pleases me is that you have kept your promise to your
mother, and have n't let anyone persuade you to wear borrowed finery.
Young things like you don't need any ornaments but those you wear
to-night, youth, health, intelligence, and modesty.”

As she spoke, grandma gave a tender kiss that made Polly glow like a
rose, and for a minute she forgot that there were such things as pink
silk and coral ear-rings in the world. She only said, “Thank you,
ma'am,” and heartily returned the kiss; but the words did her good, and
her plain dress looked charming all of a sudden.

“Polly's so pretty, it don't matter what she wears,” observed Tom,
surveying her over his collar with an air of calm approval.

“She has n't got any bwetelles to her dwess, and I have,” said Maud,
settling her ruffled bands over her shoulders, which looked like
cherry-colored wings on a stout little cherub.

“I did wish she'd just wear my blue set, ribbon is so very plain; but,
as Tom says, it don't much matter;” and Fanny gave an effective touch to
the blue bow above Polly's left temple.

“She might wear flowers; they always suit young girls,” said Mrs. Shaw,
privately thinking that her own daughters looked much the best, yet
conscious that blooming Polly had the most attractive face. “Bless me!
I forgot my posies in admiring the belles. Hand them out, Tom;” and Mr.
Shaw nodded toward an interesting looking box that stood on the table.

Seizing them wrong side-up, Tom produced three little bouquets, all
different in color, size, and construction.

“Why, papa! how very kind of you,” cried Fanny, who had not dared to
receive even a geranium leaf since the late scrape.

“Your father used to be a very gallant young gentleman, once upon a
time,” said Mrs. Shaw, with a simper.

“Ah, Tom, it's a good sign when you find time to think of giving
pleasure to your little girls!” And grandma patted her son's bald head
as if he was n't more than eighteen.

Thomas Jr. had given a somewhat scornful sniff at first; but when
grandma praised his father, the young man thought better of the matter,
and regarded the flowers with more respect, as he asked, “Which is for
which?”

“Guess,” said Mr. Shaw, pleased that his unusual demonstration had
produced such an effect.

The largest was a regular hothouse bouquet, of tea-rosebuds, scentless
heath, and smilax; the second was just a handful of sweet-peas and
mignonette, with a few cheerful pansies, and one fragrant little rose in
the middle; the third, a small posy of scarlet verbenas, white feverfew,
and green leaves.

“Not hard to guess. The smart one for Fan, the sweet one for Polly, and
the gay one for Pug. Now, then, catch hold, girls.” And Tom proceeded
to deliver the nosegays, with as much grace as could be expected from a
youth in a new suit of clothes and very tight boots.

“That finishes you off just right, and is a very pretty attention of
papa's. Now run down, for the bell has rung; and remember, not to dance
too often, Fan; be as quiet as you can, Tom; and Maud, don't eat too
much supper. Grandma will attend to things, for my poor nerves won't
allow me to come down.”

With that, Mrs. Shaw dismissed them, and the four descended to receive
the first batch of visitors, several little girls who had been asked
for the express purpose of keeping Maud out of her sister's way. Tom
had likewise been propitiated, by being allowed to bring his three bosom
friends, who went by the school-boy names of Rumple, Sherry, and Spider.

“They will do to make up sets, as gentlemen are scarce; and the party is
for Polly, so I must have some young folks on her account,” said Fanny,
when sending out her invitations.

Of course, the boys came early, and stood about in corners, looking as
if they had more arms and legs than they knew what to do with. Tom did
his best to be a good host; but ceremony oppressed his spirits, and he
was forced to struggle manfully with the wild desire to propose a game
of leap-frog, for the long drawing-rooms, cleared for dancing, tempted
him sorely.

Polly sat where she was told, and suffered bashful agonies as Fan
introduced very fine young ladies and very stiff young gentlemen, who
all said about the same civil things, and then appeared to forget all
about her. When the first dance was called, Fanny cornered Tom, who had
been dodging her, for he knew what she wanted, and said, in an earnest
whisper: “Now, Tom, you must dance this with Polly. You are the young
gentleman of the house, and it's only proper that you should ask your
company first.”

“Polly don't care for manners. I hate dancing; don't know how. Let go
my jacket, and don't bother, or I'll cut away altogether,” growled Tom,
daunted by the awful prospect of opening the ball with Polly.

“I'll never forgive you if you do. Come, be clever, and help me, there
's a dear. You know we both were dreadfully rude to Polly, and agreed
that we'd be as kind and civil to her as ever we could. I shall keep
my word, and see that she is n't slighted at my party, for I want her to
love me, and go home feeling all right.”

This artful speech made an impression on the rebellious Thomas, who
glanced at Polly's happy face, remembered his promise, and, with a
groan, resolved to do his duty.

“Well, I'll take her; but I shall come to grief, for I don't know
anything about your old dances.”

“Yes, you do. I've taught you the steps a dozen times. I'm going to
begin with a redowa, because the girls like it, and it's better fun
than square dances. Now, put on your gloves, and go and ask Polly like a
gentleman.”

“Oh, thunder!” muttered Tom. And having split the detested gloves in
dragging them on, he nerved himself for the effort, walked up to Polly,
made a stiff bow, stuck out his elbow, and said, solemnly, “May I have
the pleasure, Miss Milton?”

He did it as much like the big fellows as he could, and expected that
Polly would be impressed. But she was n't a bit; for after a surprised
look she laughed in his face, and took him by the hand, saying,
heartily, “Of course you may; but don't be a goose, Tommy.”

“Well, Fan told me to be elegant, so I tried to,” whispered Tom, adding,
as he clutched his partner with a somewhat desperate air, “Hold on
tight, and we'll get through somehow.”

The music struck up, and away they went; Tom hopping one way and Polly
the other, in a most ungraceful manner.

“Keep time to the music,” gasped Polly.

“Can't; never could,” returned Tom.

“Keep step with me, then, and don't tread on my toes,” pleaded Polly.

“Never mind; keep bobbing, and we'll come right by and by,” muttered
Tom, giving his unfortunate partner a sudden whisk, which nearly landed
both on the floor.

But they did not “get right by and by”; for Tom, In his frantic efforts
to do his duty, nearly annihilated poor Polly. He tramped, he bobbed, he
skated, he twirled her to the right, dragged her to the left, backed her
up against people and furniture, trod on her feet, rumpled her dress,
and made a spectacle of himself generally. Polly was much disturbed;
but as everyone else was flying about also, she bore it as long as
she could, knowing that Tom had made a martyr of himself, and feeling
grateful to him for the sacrifice.

“Oh, do stop now; this is dreadful!” cried Polly, breathlessly, after a
few wild turns.

“Is n't it?” said Tom, wiping his red face with such an air of intense
relief, that Polly had not the heart to scold him, but said, “Thank
you,” and dropped into a chair exhausted.

“I know I've made a guy of myself; but Fan insisted on it, for fear
you'd be offended if I did n't go the first dance with you,” said Tom,
remorsefully, watching Polly as she settled the bow of her crushed sash,
which Tom had used as a sort of handle by which to turn and twist her;
“I can do the Lancers tip-top; but you won't ever want to dance with me
any more,” he added, as he began to fan her so violently, that her hair
flew about as if in a gale of wind.

“Yes, I will. I'd like to; and you shall put your name down here on
the sticks of my fan. That's the way, Trix says, when you don't have a
ball-book.”

Looking much gratified, Tom produced the stump of a lead-pencil, and
wrote his name with a flourish, saying, as he gave it back, “Now I'm
going to get Sherry, or some of the fellows that do the redowa well, so
you can have a real good go before the music stops.”

Off went Tom; but before he could catch any eligible partner, Polly was
provided with the best dancer in the room. Mr. Sydney had seen and heard
the whole thing; and though he had laughed quietly, he liked honest Tom
and good-natured Polly all the better for their simplicity. Polly's foot
was keeping time to the lively music, and her eyes were fixed wistfully
on the smoothly-gliding couples before her, when Mr. Sydney came to
her, saying, in the pleasant yet respectful way she liked so much, “Miss
Polly, can you give me a turn?”

“Oh, yes; I'm dying for another.” And Polly jumped up, with both hands
out, and such a grateful face, that Mr. Sydney resolved she should have
as many turns as she liked.

This time all went well; and Tom, returning from an unsuccessful search,
was amazed to behold Polly circling gracefully about the room, guided by
a most accomplished partner.

“Ah, that's something like,” he thought, as he watched the bronze boots
retreating and advancing in perfect time to the music. “Don't see how
Sydney does the steering so well; but it must be fun; and, by Jupiter! I
'll learn it!” added Shaw, Jr., with an emphatic gesture which burst the
last button off his gloves.

Polly enjoyed herself till the music stopped; and before she had time to
thank Mr. Sydney as warmly as she wished, Tom came up to say, with his
most lordly air, “You dance splendidly, Polly. Now, you just show me any
one you like the looks of, and I'll get him for you, no matter who he
is.”

“I don't want any of the gentlemen; they are so stiff, and don't care
to dance with me; but I like those boys over there, and I'll dance with
any of them if they are willing,” said Polly, after a survey.

“I'll trot out the whole lot.” And Tom gladly brought up his friends,
who all admired Polly immensely, and were proud to be chosen instead of
the “big fellows.”

There was no sitting still for Polly after that, for the lads kept her
going at a great pace; and she was so happy, she never saw or suspected
how many little manoeuvres, heart-burnings, displays of vanity,
affectation, and nonsense were going on all round her. She loved
dancing, and entered into the gayety of the scene with a heartiness that
was pleasant to see. Her eyes shone, her face glowed, her lips smiled,
and the brown curls waved in the air, as she danced, with a heart as
light as her feet.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Polly?” asked Mr. Shaw, who looked in, now
and then, to report to grandma that all was going well.

“Oh, such a splendid time!” cried Polly, with an enthusiastic little
gesture, as she chassed into the corner where he stood.

“She is a regular belle among the boys,” said Fanny, as she promenaded
by.

“They are so kind in asking me and I'm not afraid of them,” explained
Polly, prancing, simply because she could n't keep still.

“So you are afraid of the young gentlemen, hey?” and Mr. Shaw held her
by one curl.

“All but Mr. Sydney. He don't put on airs and talk nonsense; and, oh! he
does'dance like an angel,' as Trix says.”

“Papa, I wish you'd come and waltz with me. Fan told me not to go near
her, 'cause my wed dwess makes her pink one look ugly; and Tom won't;
and I want to dwedfully.”

“I've forgotten how, Maudie. Ask Polly; she'll spin you round like a
teetotum.” “Mr. Sydney's name is down for that,” answered Polly, looking
at her fan with a pretty little air of importance. “But I guess he would
n't mind my taking poor Maud instead. She has n't danced hardly any,
and I've had more than my share. Would it be very improper to change
my mind?” And Polly looked up at her tall partner with eye which plainly
showed that the change was a sacrifice.

“Not a bit. Give the little dear a good waltz, and we will look on,”
 answered Mr. Sydney, with a nod and smile.

“That is a refreshing little piece of nature,” said Mr. Shaw, as Polly
and Maud whirled away.

“She will make a charming little woman, if she is n't spoilt.”

“No danger of that. She has got a sensible mother.”

“I thought so.” And Sydney sighed, for he had lately lost his own good
mother.

When supper was announced, Polly happened to be talking, or trying to
talk, to one of the “poky” gentlemen whom Fan had introduced. He took
Miss Milton down, of course, put her in a corner, and having served her
to a dab of ice and one macaroon, he devoted himself to his own supper
with such interest, that Polly would have fared badly, if Tom had not
come and rescued her.

“I've been looking everywhere for you. Come with me, and don't sit
starving here,” said Tom, with a scornful look from her empty plate to
that of her recreant escort, which was piled with good things.

Following her guide, Polly was taken to the big china closet, opening
from the dining-room to the kitchen, and here she found a jovial little
party feasting at ease. Maud and her bosom friend, “Gwace,” were seated
on tin cake-boxes; Sherry and Spider adorned the refrigerator; while Tom
and Rumple 

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