“WHAT do you think Polly is going to do this winter?” exclaimed Fanny,
looking up from the letter she had been eagerly reading.
“Going to deliver lectures on Woman's Rights,” said the young gentleman
who was carefully examining his luxuriant crop of decidedly auburn hair,
as he lounged with both elbows on the chimney-piece.
“Going to set her cap for some young minister and marry him in the
spring,” added Mrs. Shaw, whose mind ran a good deal upon match-making
just now.
“I think she is going to stay at home, and do all the work, 'cause
servants cost so much; it would be just like her,” observed Maud, who
could pronounce the letter R now.
“It's my opinion she is going to open a school, or something of that
sort, to help those brothers of hers along,” said Mr. Shaw, who had put
down his paper at the sound of Polly's name.
“Every one of you wrong, though papa comes nearest the truth,” cried
Fanny; “she is going to give music lessons, and support herself, so that
Will may go to college. He is the studious one, and Polly is very proud
of him. Ned, the other brother, has a business talent, and don't care
for books, so he has gone out West, and will make his own way anywhere.
Polly says she is n't needed at home now, the family is so small, and
Kitty can take her place nicely; so she is actually going to earn her
own living, and hand over her share of the family income to Will. What a
martyr that girl does make of herself,” and Fanny looked as solemn as if
Polly had proposed some awful self-sacrifice.
“She is a sensible, brave-hearted girl, and I respect her for doing it,”
said Mr. Shaw, emphatically. “One never knows what may happen, and it
does no harm for young people to learn to be independent.”
“If she is as pretty as she was last time I saw her, she'll get pupils
fast enough. I would n't mind taking lessons myself,” was the gracious
observation of Shaw, Jr., as he turned from the mirror, with the
soothing certainty that his objectionable hair actually was growing
darker.
“She would n't take you at any price,” said Fanny, remembering Polly's
look of disappointment and disapproval when she came on her last visit
and found him an unmistakable dandy.
“You just wait and see,” was the placid reply.
“If Polly does carry out her plan, I wish Maud to take lessons of her;
Fanny can do as she likes, but it would please me very much to have one
of my girls sing as Polly sings. It suits old people better than your
opera things, and mother used to enjoy it so much.”
As he spoke, Mr. Shaw's eye turned toward the corner of the fire where
grandma used to sit. The easy-chair was empty now, the kind old face was
gone, and nothing but a very tender memory remained.
“I'd like to learn, papa, and Polly is a splendid teacher, I know; she
's always so patient, and makes everything so pleasant. I do hope she
will get scholars enough to begin right away,” said Maud.
“When is she coming?” asked Mrs. Shaw, quite willing to help Polly,
but privately resolving that Maud should be finished off by the most
fashionable master in the city.
“She does n't say. She thanks me for asking her here, as usual, but says
she shall go right to work and had better begin with her own little room
at once. Won't it seem strange to have Polly in town, and yet not with
us?”
“We'll get her somehow. The little room will cost something, and she
can stay with us just as well as not, even if she does teach. Tell her I
say so,” said Mr. Shaw.
“She won't come, I know; for if she undertakes to be independent, she
'll do it in the most thorough manner,” answered Fanny, and Mrs. Shaw
sincerely hoped she would. It was all very well to patronize the little
music-teacher, but it was not so pleasant to have her settled in the
family.
“I shall do what I can for her among my friends, and I dare say she will
get on very well with young pupils to begin with. If she starts right,
puts her terms high enough, and gets a few good names to give her the
entre into our first families, I don't doubt she will do nicely, for I
must say Polly has the manners of a lady,” observed Mrs. Shaw.
“She's a mighty taking little body, and I'm glad she's to be in town,
though I'd like it better if she did n't bother about teaching, but
just stayed here and enjoyed herself,” said Tom, lazily.
“I've no doubt she would feel highly honored to be allowed to devote
her time to your amusement; but she can't afford expensive luxuries, and
she don't approve of flirting, so you will have to let her go her own
way, and refresh herself with such glimpses of you as her engagements
permit,” answered Fanny, in the sarcastic tone which was becoming
habitual to her.
“You are getting to be a regular old maid, Fan; as sharp as a lemon, and
twice as sour,” returned Tom, looking down at her with an air of calm
superiority.
“Do be quiet, children; you know I can't bear anything like contention.
Maud, give me my Shetland shawl, and put a cushion at my back.”
As Maud obeyed her mother, with a reproving look at her erring brother
and sister, a pause followed, for which every one seemed grateful. They
were sitting about the fire after dinner, and all looked as if a little
sunshine would do them good. It had been a dull November day, but all of
a sudden the clouds lifted, and a bright ray shot into the room. Every
one turned involuntarily to welcome it, and every one cried out, “Why,
Polly!” for there on the threshold stood a bright-faced girl, smiling as
if there was no such thing as November weather in the world.
“You dear thing, when did you come?” cried Fanny, kissing both the
blooming checks with real affection, while the rest hovered near,
waiting for a chance.
“I came yesterday, and have been getting my nest in order; but I could
n't keep away any longer, so I ran up to say 'How do you do?'” answered
Polly, in the cheery voice that did one's heart good to hear.
“My Polly always brings the sunshine with her,” and Mr. Shaw held out
his hands to his little friend, for she was his favorite still.
It was good to see her put both arms about his neck, and give him a
tender kiss, that said a great deal, for grandma had died since Polly
met him last and she longed to comfort him, seeing how gray and old he
had grown.
If Tom had had any thoughts of following his father's example, something
in Polly's manner made him change his mind, and shake hands with a
hearty “I'm very glad to see you, Polly,” adding to himself, as he
looked at the face in the modest little bonnet: “Prettier than ever, by
Jove!”
There was something more than mere prettiness in Polly's face, though
Tom had not learned to see it yet. The blue eyes were clear and steady,
the fresh mouth frank and sweet, the white chin was a very firm one in
spite of the dimple, and the smooth forehead under the little curls
had a broad, benevolent arch; while all about the face were those
unmistakable lines and curves which can make even a plain countenance
comely, by breathing into it the beauty of a lovely character. Polly had
grown up, but she had no more style now than in the days of the round
hat and rough coat, for she was all in gray, like a young Quakeress,
with no ornament but a blue bow at the throat and another in the hair.
Yet the plain suit became her excellently, and one never thought of the
dress, looking at the active figure that wore it, for the freedom of her
childhood gave to Polly that good gift, health, and every movement was
full of the vigor, grace, and ease, which nothing else can so surely
bestow. A happy soul in a healthy body is a rare sight in these days,
when doctors flourish and every one is ill, and this pleasant union was
the charm which Polly possessed without knowing it.
“It does seem so good to have you here again,” said Maud, cuddling
Polly's cold hand, as she sat at her feet, when she was fairly
established between Fanny and Mr. Shaw, while Tom leaned on the back of
his mother's chair, and enjoyed the prospect.
“How do you get on? When do you begin? Where is your nest? Now tell all
about it,” began Fanny, who was full of curiosity about the new plan.
“I shall get on very well, I think, for I've got twelve scholars to
begin with, all able to pay a good price, and I shall give my first
lesson on Monday.”
“Don't you dread it?” asked Fanny.
“Not much; why should I?” answered Polly, stoutly.
“Well, I don't know; it's a new thing, and must be a little bit hard at
first,” stammered Fanny, not liking to say that working for one's living
seemed a dreadful hardship to her.
“It will be tiresome, of course, but I shall get used to it; I shall
like the exercise, and the new people and places I must see will amuse
me. Then the independence will be delightful, and if I can save a little
to help Kitty along with, that will be best of all.”
Polly's face shone as if the prospect was full of pleasure instead of
work, and the hearty good will with which she undertook the new task,
seemed to dignify her humble hopes and plans, and make them interesting
in the sight of others.
“Who have you got for pupils?” asked Mrs. Shaw, forgetting her nerves
for a minute.
Polly named her list, and took a secret satisfaction in seeing the
impression which certain names made upon her hearers.
“How in the world did you get the Davenports and the Greys, my dear?”
said Mrs. Shaw, sitting erect in her surprise.
“Mrs. Davenport and mother are relations, you know.”
“You never told us that before!” “The Davenports have been away some
years, and I forgot all about them. But when I was making my plan, I
knew I must have a good name or two to set me going, so I just wrote
and asked Mrs. D. if she would help me. She came and saw us and was very
kind, and has got these pupils for me, like a dear, good woman as she
is.”
“Where did you learn so much worldly wisdom, Polly?” asked Mr. Shaw,
as his wife fell back in her chair, and took out her salts, as if this
discovery had been too much for her.
“I learnt it here, sir,” answered Polly, laughing. “I used to think
patronage and things of that sort very disagreeable and not worth
having, but I've got wiser, and to a certain extent I'm glad to use
whatever advantages I have in my power, if they can be honestly got.”
“Why did n't you let us help you in the beginning? We should have been
very glad to, I'm sure,” put in Mrs. Shaw, who quite burned to be known
as a joint patroness with Mrs. Davenport.
“I know you would, but you have all been so kind to me I did n't want
to trouble you with my little plans till the first steps were taken.
Besides, I did n't know as you would like to recommend me as a teacher,
though you like me well enough as plain Polly.”
“My dear, of course I would, and we want you to take Maud at once,
and teach her your sweet songs. She has a fine voice, and is really
suffering for a teacher.”
A slight smile passed over Polly's face as she returned her thanks for
the new pupil, for she remembered a time when Mrs. Shaw considered her
“sweet songs” quite unfit for a fashionable young lady's repertoire.
“Where is your room?” asked Maud.
“My old friend Miss Mills has taken me in, and I am nicely settled.
Mother did n't like the idea of my going to a strange boarding-house,
so Miss Mills kindly made a place for me. You know she lets her rooms
without board, but she is going to give me my dinners, and I'm to get
my own breakfast and tea, quite independently. I like that way, and it
's very little trouble, my habits are so simple; a bowl of bread and
milk night and morning, with baked apples or something of that sort, is
all I want, and I can have it when I like.”
“Is your room comfortably furnished? Can't we lend you anything, my
dear? An easy-chair now, or a little couch, so necessary when one comes
in tired,” said Mrs. Shaw, taking unusual interest in the affair.
“Thank you, but I don't need anything, for I brought all sorts of home
comforts with me. Oh, Fan, you ought to have seen my triumphal entry
into the city, sitting among my goods and chattels, in a farmer's cart.”
Polly's laugh was so infectious that every one smiled and forgot to be
shocked at her performance. “Yes,” she added, “I kept wishing I could
meet you, just to see your horrified face when you saw me sitting on
my little sofa, with boxes and bundles all round me, a bird-cage on one
side, a fishing basket, with a kitten's head popping in and out of the
hole, on the other side, and jolly old Mr. Brown, in his blue frock,
perched on a keg of apples in front. It was a lovely bright day, and I
enjoyed the ride immensely, for we had all sorts of adventures.”
“Oh, tell about it,” begged Maud, when the general laugh at Polly's
picture had subsided.
“Well, in the first place, we forgot my ivy, and Kitty came running
after me, with it. Then we started again, but were soon stopped by a
great shouting, and there was Will racing down the hill, waving a pillow
in one hand and a squash pie in the other. How we did laugh when he
came up and explained that our neighbor, old Mrs. Dodd, had sent in a
hop-pillow for me, in case of headache, and a pie to begin housekeeping
with. She seemed so disappointed at being too late that Will promised
to get them to me, if he ran all the way to town. The pillow was easily
disposed of, but that pie! I do believe it was stowed in every part of
the wagon, and never staid anywhere. I found it in my lap, then on the
floor, next, upside down among the books, then just on the point
of coasting off a trunk into the road, and at last it landed in my
rocking-chair. Such a remarkable pie as it was, too, for in spite of all
its wanderings, it never got spilt or broken, and we finally ate it for
lunch, in order to be left in peace. Next, my kitty got away, and I
had a chase over walls and brooks before I got her, while Mr. Brown
sat shaking with fun, to see me run. We finished off by having the
book-shelves tumble on our heads as we went down a hill, and losing
my chair off behind, as we went up a hill. A shout made us pause, and,
looking back, there was the poor little chair rocking all by itself in
the middle of the road, while a small boy sat on the fence and whooped.
It was great fun, I do assure you.”
Polly had run on in her lively way, not because she thought her
adventures amounted to much, but from a wish to cheer up her friends,
who had struck her as looking rather dull and out of sorts, especially
Mr. Shaw; and when she saw him lean back in his chair with the old
hearty laugh, she was satisfied, and blessed the unlucky pie for amusing
him.
“Oh, Polly, you do tell such interesting things!” sighed Maud, wiping
her eyes.
“I wish I'd met you, I'd have given you three cheers and a tiger, for
it must have been an imposing spectacle,” said Tom.
“No, you would n't; you'd have whisked round the corner when you saw me
coming or have stared straight before you, utterly unconscious of the
young woman in the baggage wagon.”
Polly laughed in his face just as she used to do, when she said that,
and, in spite of the doubt cast upon his courtesy, Tom rather liked it,
though he had nothing to say for himself but a reproachful, “Now, Polly,
that's too bad.”
“True, nevertheless. You must come and see my pets, Maud, for my cat
and bird live together as happily as brother and sister,” said Polly,
turning to Maud, who devoured every word she said.
“That's not saying much for them,” muttered Tom, feeling that Polly
ought to address more of her conversation to him.
“Polly knows what she's talking about; her brothers appreciate their
sisters,” observed Fanny, in her sharp tone.
“And Polly appreciates her brothers, don't forget to add that, ma'am,”
answered Tom.
“Did I tell you that Will was going to college?” broke in Polly, to
avert the rising storm.
“Hope he'll enjoy himself,” observed Tom, with the air of a man who
had passed through all the mysteries, and reached that state of sublime
indifference which juniors seem to pride themselves upon.
“I think he will, he is so fond of study, and is so anxious to improve
every opportunity. I only hope he won't overwork and get sick, as so
many boys do,” said simple Polly, with such a respectful belief in the
eager thirst for knowledge of collegians as a class, that Tom regarded
the deluded girl with a smile of lofty pity, from the heights of his
vast and varied experience.
“Guess he won't hurt himself. I'll see that he don't study too hard.”
And Tom's eyes twinkled as they used to do, when he planned his boyish
pranks.
“I'm afraid you can't be trusted as a guide, if various rumors I
've heard are true,” said Polly, looking up at him with a wistful
expression, that caused his face to assume the sobriety of an owl's.
“Base slanders; I'm as steady as a clock, an ornament to my class, and
a model young man, ain't I, mother?” And Tom patted her thin cheek with
a caressing hand, sure of one firm friend in her; for when he ceased to
be a harum-scarum boy, Mrs. Shaw began to take great pride in her son,
and he, missing grandma, tried to fill her place with his feeble mother.
“Yes, dear, you are all I could ask,” and Mrs. Shaw looked up at him
with such affection and confidence in her eyes, that Polly gave Tom the
first approving look she had vouchsafed him since she came.
Why Tom should look troubled and turn grave all at once, she could
n't understand, but she liked to see him stroke his mother's cheek so
softly, as he stood with his head resting on the high back of her chair,
for Polly fancied that he felt a man's pity for her weakness, and was
learning a son's patient love for a mother who had had much to bear with
him.
“I'm so glad you are going to be here all winter, for we are to be
very gay, and I shall enjoy taking you round with me,” began Fanny,
forgetting Polly's plan for a moment.
Polly shook her head decidedly. “It sounds very nice, but it can't be
done, Fan, for I've come to work, not play; to save, not spend; and
parties will be quite out of the question for me.”
“You don't intend to work all the time, without a bit of fun, I hope,”
cried Fanny, dismayed at the idea.
“I mean to do what I've undertaken, and not to be tempted away from
my purpose by anything. I should n't be fit to give lessons if I was
up late, should I? And how far would my earnings go towards dress,
carriages, and all the little expenses which would come if I set up for
a young lady in society? I can't do both, and I'm not going to try,
but I can pick up bits of fun as I go along, and be contented with free
concerts and lectures, seeing you pretty often, and every Sunday Will is
to spend with me, so I shall have quite as much dissipation as is good
for me.”
“If you don't come to my parties, I'll never forgive you,” said Fanny,
as Polly paused, while Tom chuckled inwardly at the idea of calling
visits from a brother “dissipation.”
“Any small party, where it will do to wear a plain black silk, I can
come to; but the big ones must n't be thought of, thank you.”
It was charming to see the resolution of Polly's face when she said
that; for she knew her weakness, and beyond that black silk she had
determined not to go. Fanny said no more, for she felt quite sure that
Polly would relent when the time came, and she planned to give her
a pretty dress for a Christmas present, so that one excuse should be
removed.
“I say, Polly, won't you give some of us fellows music lessons?
Somebody wants me to play, and I'd rather learn of you than any Senor
Twankydillo,” said Tom, who did n't find the conversation interesting.
“Oh, yes; if any of you boys honestly want to learn, and will behave
yourselves, I'll take you; but I shall charge extra,” answered Polly,
with a wicked sparkle of the eye, though her face was quite sober, and
her tone delightfully business-like.
“Why, Polly, Tom is n't a boy; he's twenty, and he says I must treat
him with respect. Besides, he's engaged, and does put on such airs,”
broke in Maud who regarded her brother as a venerable being.
“Who is the little girl?” asked Polly taking the news as a joke.
“Trix; why, did n't you know it?” answered Maud, as if it had been an
event of national importance.
“No! is it true, Fan?” and Polly turned to her friend with a face full
of surprise, while Tom struck an imposing attitude, and affected absence
of mind.
“I forgot to tell you in my last letter; it's just out, and we don't
like it very well,” observed Fanny, who would have preferred to be
engaged first herself.
“It's a very nice thing, and I am perfectly satisfied,” announced Mrs.
Shaw, rousing from a slight doze.
“Polly looks as if she did n't believe it. Have n't I the appearance
of'the happiest man alive'?” asked Tom, wondering if it could be pity
which he saw in the steady eyes fixed on him.
“No, I don't think you have,” she said, slowly.
“How the deuce should a man look, then?” cried Tom, rather nettled at
her sober reception of the grand news.
“As if he had learned to care for some one a great deal more than for
himself,” answered Polly, with sudden color in her cheeks, and a sudden
softening of the voice, as her eyes turned away from Tom, who was the
picture of a complacent dandy, from the topmost curl of his auburn head
to the tips of his aristocratic boots.
“Tommy's quenched; I agree with you, Polly; I never liked Trix, and
I hope it's only a boy-and-girl fancy, that will soon die a natural
death,” said Mr. Shaw, who seemed to find it difficult to help falling
into a brown study, in spite of the lively chatter going on about him.
Shaw, Jr., being highly incensed at the disrespectful manner in
which his engagement was treated, tried to assume a superb air of
indifference, and finding that a decided failure, was about to stroll
out of the room with a comprehensive nod, when his mother called after
him: “Where are you going, dear?”
“To see Trix, of course. Good-by, Polly,” and Mr. Thomas departed,
hoping that by the skillful change of tone, from ardent impatience to
condescending coolness, he had impressed one hearer at least with the
fact that he regarded Trix as the star of his existence, and Polly as a
presuming little chit.
If he could have heard her laugh, and Fanny's remarks, his wrath would
have boiled over; fortunately he was spared the trial, and went away
hoping that the coquetries of his Trix would make him forget Polly's
look when she answered his question.
“My dear, that boy is the most deluded creature you ever saw,” began
Fanny, as soon as the front door banged. “Belle and Trix both tried to
catch him, and the slyest got him; for, in spite of his airs, he is
as soft-hearted as a baby. You see Trix has broken off two engagements
already, and the third time she got jilted herself. Such a fuss as she
made! I declare, it really was absurd. But I do think she felt it very
much, for she would n't go out at all, and got thin, and pale, and blue,
and was really quite touching. I pitied her, and had her here a good
deal, and Tom took her part; he always does stand up for the crushed
ones, and that's good of him, I allow. Well, she did the forsaken very
prettily; let Tom amuse her, and led him on till the poor fellow lost
his wits, and finding her crying one day (about her hat, which was n't
becoming), he thought she was mourning for Mr. Banks, and so, to comfort
her, the goose proposed. That was all she wanted; she snapped him up at
once, and there he is in a nice scrape; for since her engagement she is
as gay as ever, flirts awfully with any one who comes along, and keeps
Tom in a fume all the time. I really don't think he cares for her half
as much as he makes believe, but he'll stand by her through thick and
thin, rather than do as Banks did.”
“Poor Tom!” was all Polly said, when Fan had poured the story into her
ear, as they sat whispering in the sofa corner.
“My only consolation is that Trix will break off the affair before
spring; she always does, so that she may be free for the summer
campaign. It won't hurt Tom, but I hate to have him make a fool of
himself out of pity, for he is more of a man than he seems, and I don't
want any one to plague him.”
“No one but yourself,” said Polly, smiling.
“Well, that's all fair; he is a torment sometimes, but I'm rather fond
of him in spite of it. I get so tired of the other fellows, they are
such absurd things and when Tom is in his good mood he is very nice and
quite refreshing.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” said Polly, making a mental note of the fact.
“Yes, and when grandma was ill he was perfectly devoted. I did n't know
the boy had so much gentleness in him. He took her death sadly to heart,
for, though he did n't say much, he was very grave and steady for a long
time. I tried to comfort him, and we had two or three real sweet little
talks together, and seemed to get acquainted for the first time. It was
very nice, but it did n't last; good times never do with us. We soon got
back into the old way, and now we hector one another just as before.”
Fanny sighed, then yawned, and fell into her usual listless attitude, as
if the brief excitement of Polly's coming had begun to subside.
“Walk home with me and see my funny little room. It's bright now, and
the air will do you good. Come, both of you, and have a frolic as we
used to,” said Polly, for the red sunset now burning in the west seemed
to invite them out.
They agreed, and soon the three were walking briskly away to Polly's new
home, in a quiet street, where a few old trees rustled in the summer,
and the morning sun shone pleasantly in winter time.
“The way into my parlor
Is up a winding stair,”
sang Polly, running up two flights of broad, old-fashioned steps, and
opening the door of a back room, out of which streamed the welcome glow
of firelight.
“These are my pets, Maud,” she added, pausing on the threshold, and
beckoning the girls to look in quietly.
On the rug, luxuriously basking in the warmth, lay a gray kitten, and
close by, meditatively roosting on one leg, stood a plump canary, who
cocked his bright eye at the new-comers, gave a loud chirp as if to wake
his comrade, and then flew straight to Polly's shoulder, where he broke
into a joyful song to welcome his mistress home.
“Allow me to introduce my family,” said Polly; “this noisy little chap
the boys named Nicodemus; and this dozy cat is called Ashputtel, because
the joy of her life is to get among the cinders. Now, take off your
things, and let me do the honors, for you are to stop to tea, and the
carriage is to come for you at eight. I arranged it with your mother
while you were upstairs.”
“I want to see everything,” said Maud, when the hats were off, and the
hands warmed.
“So you shall; for I think my housekeeping arrangements will amuse you.”
Then Polly showed her kingdom, and the three had a merry time over it.
The big piano took up so much room there was no place for a bed; but
Polly proudly displayed the resources of her chintz-covered couch, for
the back let down, the seat lifted up, and inside were all the pillows
and blankets. “So convenient, you see, and yet out of the way in the
daytime, for two or three of my pupils come to me,” explained Polly.
Then there was a bright drugget over the faded carpet, the little
rocking-chair and sewing-table stood at one window, the ivy ran all over
the other, and hid the banqueting performances which went on in that
corner. Book-shelves hung over the sofa, a picture or two on the
walls, and a great vase of autumn leaves and grasses beautified the low
chimney-piece. It was a very humble little room, but Polly had done her
best to make it pleasant, and it already had a home-like look, with the
cheery fire, and the household pets chirping and purring confidingly on
the rug.
“How nice it is!” exclaimed Maud, as she emerged from the big closet
where Polly kept her stores. “Such a cunning teakettle and saucepan,
and a tete-a-tete set, and lots of good things to eat. Do have toast for
tea, Polly, and let me make it with the new toasting fork; it's such
fun to play cook.”
Fanny was not so enthusiastic as her sister, for her eyes saw many
traces of what seemed like poverty to her; but Polly was so gay, so
satisfied with her small establishment, so full of happy hopes and
plans, that her friend had not the heart to find a fault or suggest an
improvement, and sat where she was told, laughing and talking while the
others got tea.
“This will be a country supper, girls,” said Polly, bustling about.
“Here is real cream, brown bread, home-made cake, and honey from my own
beehives. Mother fitted me out with such a supply, I'm glad to have a
party, for I can't eat it all quick enough. Butter the toast, Maudie,
and put that little cover over it. Tell me when the kettle boils, and
don't step on Nicodemus, whatever you do.”
“What a capital house-keeper you will make some day,” said Fanny, as she
watched Polly spread her table with a neatness and despatch which was
pleasant to behold.
“Yes, it's good practice,” laughed Polly, filling her tiny teapot, and
taking her place behind the tray, with a matronly air, which was the
best joke of the whole.
“This is the most delicious party I ever went to,” observed Maud, with
her mouth full of honey, when the feast was well under way. “I do wish
I could have a nice room like this, and a cat and a bird that would n't
eat each other up, and a dear little teakettle, and make just as much
toast as I like.”
Such a peal of laughter greeted Maud's pensive aspiration, that Miss
Mills smiled over her solitary cup of tea, and little Nick burst into a
perfect ecstasy of song, as he sat on the sugar-bowl helping himself.
“I don't care for the toast and the kettle, but I do envy you your good
spirits, Polly,” said Fanny, as the merriment subsided. “I'm so tired
of everybody and everything, it seems sometimes as if I should die of
ennui. Don't you ever feel so?”
“Things worry me sometimes, but I just catch up a broom and sweep, or
wash hard, or walk, or go at something with all my might, and I usually
find that by the time I get through the worry is gone, or I've got
courage enough to bear it without grumbling,” answered Polly, cutting
the brown loaf energetically.
“I can't do those things, you know; there's no need of it, and I
don't think they'd cure my worrying,” said Fanny, languidly feeding
Ashputtel, who sat decorously beside her, at the table, winking at the
cream pot.
“A little poverty would do you good, Fan; just enough necessity to keep
you busy till you find how good work is; and when you once learn that,
you won't complain of ennui any more,” returned Polly, who had taken
kindly the hard lesson which twenty years of cheerful poverty had taught
her.
“Mercy, no, I should hate that; but I wish some one would invent a new
amusement for rich people. I'm dead sick of parties, and flirtations,
trying to out-dress my neighbors, and going the same round year after
year, like a squirrel in a cage.”
Fanny's tone was bitter as well as discontented, her face sad as well as
listless, and Polly had an instinctive feeling that some trouble, more
real than any she had ever known before, was lying heavy at her friend's
heart. That was not the time to speak of it, but Polly resolved to stand
ready to offer sympathy, if nothing more, whenever the confidential
minute came; and her manner was so kind, so comfortable, that Fanny felt
its silent magic, grew more cheerful in the quiet atmosphere of that
little room, and when they said good-night, after an old-time gossip by
the fire, she kissed her hostess warmly, saying, with a grateful look,
“Polly, dear, I shall come often, you do me so much good.”