for things worry me here, and there isn’t anyone 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 isn’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 haven’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 hadn’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 than any words Polly could have spoken; for she had laughed at her friend, had slighted her sometimes, and been unforgiving for an innocent offence. The 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 wasn’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 couldn’t be found. He searched high and low in every room, yet no sign of the girl 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. ’Tisn’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 wasn’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 bootjack, 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 wasn’t easy to forgive; but, as she listened to Tom’s honest voice, getting gruff with remorse now and then, she couldn’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 didn’t,” said Tom, as a last appeal.
Polly was glad to hear that Fan was crying. It would do her good; but she couldn’t help softening to Tom, who did seem in a predicament between two weeping damsels. A little smile began to dimple the cheek that wasn’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 bootjack, 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 everyone; 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.
Chapter 6
Grandma
“Where’s Polly?” asked Fan one snowy afternoon, as she came into the dining room where Tom was reposing
