GOING into the Shaws' one evening, Polly found Maud sitting on the
stairs, with a troubled face.
“Oh, Polly, I'm so glad you've come!” cried the little girl, running
to hug her.
“What's the matter, deary?”
“I don't know; something dreadful must have happened, for mamma and Fan
are crying together upstairs, papa is shut up in the library, and Tom is
raging round like a bear, in the dining-room.”
“I guess it is n't anything very bad. Perhaps mamma is sicker than
usual, or papa worried about business, or Tom in some new scrape. Don't
look so frightened, Maudie, but come into the parlor and see what I've
got for you,” said Polly, feeling that there was trouble of some sort in
the air, but trying to cheer the child, for her little face was full of
a sorrowful anxiety, that went to Polly's heart.
“I don't think I can like anything till I know what the matter is,”
answered Maud. “It's something horrid, I'm sure, for when papa came
home, he went up to mamma's room, and talked ever so long, and mamma
cried very loud, and when I tried to go in, Fan would n't let me, and
she looked scared and strange. I wanted to go to papa when he came down,
but the door was locked, and he said, 'Not now, my little girl,' and
then I sat here waiting to see what would happen, and Tom came home. But
when I ran to tell him, he said, 'Go away, and don't bother,' and just
took me by the shoulders and put me out. Oh, dear! everything is so
queer and horrid, I don't know what to do.”
Maud began to cry, and Polly sat down on the stairs beside her, trying
to comfort her, while her own thoughts were full of a vague fear. All
at once the dining-room door opened, and Tom's head appeared. A single
glance showed Polly that something was the matter, for the care and
elegance which usually marked his appearance were entirely wanting. His
tie was under one ear, his hair in a toss, the cherished moustache had
a neglected air, and his face an expression both excited, ashamed, and
distressed; even his voice betrayed disturbance, for instead of the
affable greeting he usually bestowed upon the young lady, he seemed to
have fallen back into the bluff tone of his boyish days, and all he said
was, “Hullo, Polly.”
“How do you do?” answered Polly.
“I'm in a devil of a mess, thank you; send that chicken up stairs, and
come in and hear about it,” he said, as if he had been longing to tell
some one, and welcomed prudent Polly as a special providence.
“Go up, deary, and amuse yourself with this book, and these ginger snaps
that I made for you, there's a good child,” whispered Polly, as Maud
rubbed away her tears, and stared at Tom with round, inquisitive eyes.
“You'll tell me all about it, by and by, won't you?” she whispered,
preparing to obey.
“If I may,” answered Polly.
Maud departed with unexpected docility, and Polly went into the
dining-room, where Tom was wandering about in a restless way. If he
had been “raging like a bear,” Polly would n't have cared, she was so
pleased that he wanted her, and so glad to be a confidante, as she used
to be in the happy old days, that she would joyfully have faced a much
more formidable person than reckless Tom.
“Now, then, what is it?” she said, coming straight to the point.
“Guess.”
“You've killed your horse racing.”
“Worse than that.”
“You are suspended again.”
“Worse than that.”
“Trix has run away with somebody,” cried Polly, with a gasp.
“Worse still.”
“Oh, Tom, you have n't horse whipped or shot any one?”
“Came pretty near blowing my own brains out but you see I did n't.”
“I can't guess; tell me, quick.”
“Well, I'm expelled.”
Tom paused on the rug as he gave the answer, and looked at Polly to see
how she took it. To his surprise she seemed almost relieved, and after a
minute silence, said, soberly, “That's bad, very bad; but it might have
been worse.”
“It is worse;” and Tom walked away again with a despairing sort of
groan.
“Don't knock the chairs about, but come and sit down, and tell me
quietly.”
“Can't do it.”
“Well, go on, then. Are you truly expelled? Can't it be made up? What
did you do?”
“It's a true bill this time. I just had a row with the Chapel watchman,
and knocked him down. If it was a first offence, I might have got off;
but you see I've had no end of narrow escapes, and this was my last
chance; I've lost it, and now there'll be the dickens to pay. I knew
it was all up with me, so I did n't wait to be turned out, but just took
myself off.”
“What will your father say?”
“It will come hard on the governor, but the worst of it is” there Tom
stopped, and stood a minute in the middle of the room with his head
down, as if he did n't find it easy to tell even kind little Polly.
Then out came the truth all in a breath, just as he used to bolt out his
boyish misdemeanors, and then back up against the wall ready to take the
consequences.
“I owe an awful lot of money that the governor don't know about.”
“Oh, Tom, how could you?”
“I've been an extravagant rascal, I know it, and I'm thundering sorry,
but that don't help a fellow, I've got to tell the dear old buffer, and
there's where it cuts.”
At another time Polly would have laughed at the contrast between Tom's
face and his language, but there was a sincere remorse, which made even
the dreadful word “buffer” rather touching than otherwise.
“He will be very angry, I dare say; but he'll help you, won't he? He
always does, Fan says.”
“That's the worst of it, you see. He's paid up so often, that the last
time he said his patience could n't stand it, nor his pocket either, and
if I got into any more scrapes of that sort, I must get out as I could.
I meant to be as steady as Bunker Hill Monument; but here I am again,
worse than ever, for last quarter I did n't say anything to father, he
was so bothered by the loss of those ships just then, so things have
mounted up confoundedly.”
“What have you done with all your money?”
“Hanged if I know.”
“Can't you pay it anyway?”
“Don't see how, as I have n't a cent of my own, and no way of getting
it, unless I try gambling.”
“Oh, mercy, no! Sell your horse,” cried Polly, after a minute of deep
meditation.
“I have; but he did n't bring half I gave for him. I lamed him last
winter, and the beggar won't get over it.”
“And that did n't pay up the debts?”
“Only about a half of'em.”
“Why, Tom, how much do you owe?”
“I have dodged figuring it up till yesterday; then things were so
desperate, I thought I might as well face the truth, so I overhauled my
accounts, and there's the result.”
Tom threw a blotted, crumpled paper into Polly's lap, and tramped up
and down again, faster than ever. Polly took one look at the total and
clasped her hands, for to her inexperienced eyes it looked appalling.
“Tidy little sum, is n't it?” asked Tom, who could n't bear the silence,
or the startled, grieved look in Polly's eyes.
“It's awful! I don't wonder you dread telling your father.”
“I'd rather be shot. I say, Polly, suppose we break it to him easy!”
added Tom, after another turn.
“How do you mean?”
“Why, suppose Fan, or, better still, you go and sort of pave the way. I
can't bear to come down on him with the whole truth at once.”
“So you'd like to have me go and tell him for you?” Polly's lip curled
a little as she said that, and she gave Tom a look that would have
shown him how blue eyes can flash, if he had seen it. But he was at the
window, and did n't turn, as he said slowly, “Well, you see, he's
so fond of you; we all confide in you; and you are so like one of the
family, that it seems quite natural. Just tell him I'm expelled, you
know, and as much more as you like; then I'll come in, and we'll have
it out.”
Polly rose and went to the door without a word. In doing so, Tom caught
a glimpse of her face, and said, hastily, “Don't you think it would be a
good plan?”
“No, I don't.”
“Why not? Don't you think he'd rather have it told him nicely by you,
than blurted out as I always do blurt things?”
“I know he'd rather have his son go to him and tell the truth, like a
man, instead of sending a girl to do what he is afraid to do himself.”
If Polly had suddenly boxed his ears, Tom could n't have looked more
taken aback than by that burst. He looked at her excited face, seemed
to understand the meaning of it, and remembered all at once that he was
trying to hide behind a girl. He turned scarlet, said shortly, “Come
back, Polly,” and walked straight out of the room, looking as if going
to instant execution, for poor Tom had been taught to fear his father,
and had not entirely outgrown the dread.
Polly sat down, looking both satisfied and troubled. “I hope I did
right,” she said to herself, “I could n't bear to have him shirk and
seem cowardly. He is n't, only he did n't think how it seemed to me, and
I don't wonder he was a little afraid, Mr. Shaw is so severe with the
poor fellow. Oh, dear, what should we do if Will got into such scrapes.
Thank goodness, he's poor, and can't; I'm so glad of that!”
Then she sat silent beside the half-open door, hearing the murmur of
Tom's voice across the hall, and hoping, with all her heart, that he
would n't have a very hard time. He seemed to tell his story rapidly and
steadily, without interruption, to the end; then Polly heard Mr. Shaw's
deeper voice say a few words, at which Tom uttered a loud exclamation,
as if taken by surprise. Polly could n't distinguish a word, so she kept
her seat, wondering anxiously what was going on between the two men. A
sudden pause seemed to follow Tom's ejaculation, then Mr. Shaw talked a
long time in a low, earnest tone, so different from the angry one Polly
had expected to hear, that it made her nervous, for Mr. Shaw usually
“blew Tom up first, and forgave him afterward,” as Maud said. Presently
Tom's voice was heard, apparently asking eager questions, to which brief
replies were given. Then a dead silence fell upon the room, and nothing
was heard but the spring rain softly falling out of doors. All of a
sudden she heard a movement, and Tom's voice say audibly, “Let me bring
Polly;” and he appeared, looking so pale and miserable that Polly was
frightened.
“Go and say something to him; I can't; poor old father, if I'd only
known,” and to Polly's utter dismay, Tom threw himself into a chair, and
laid his head down on the table, as if he had got a blow that was too
much for him.
“Oh, Tom, what is it?” cried Polly, hurrying to him, full of fears she
dared not speak.
Without looking up, Tom answered, in a smothered voice, “Failed; all
gone to smash; and to-morrow every one will know it.”
Polly held on to the back of Tom's chair, for a minute, for the news
took her breath away, and she felt as if the world was coming to an end,
“failed” was such a vaguely dreadful word to her.
“Is it very bad?” she asked, softly, feeling as if anything was better
than to stand still and see Tom so wretched.
“Yes; he means to give up everything. He's done his best; but it can't
be staved off any longer, and it's all up with him.”
“Oh, I wish I had a million to give him!” cried Polly, clasping her
hands, with the tears running down her cheeks. “How does he bear it,
Tom?”
“Like a man, Polly; and I'm proud of him,” said Tom, looking up,
all red and excited with the emotions he was trying to keep under.
“Everything has been against him, and he has fought all alone to stand
the pressure, but it's too much for him, and he's given in. It's an
honorable failure, mind you, and no one can say a word against him. I'd
like to see'em try it!” and Tom clenched his hands, as if it would
be an immense relief to him to thrash half a dozen aspersers of his
father's honest name.
“Of course they can't! This is what poor Maud troubled about. He had
told your mother and Fan before you came, and that is why they are so
unhappy, I suppose.”
“They are safe enough. Father has n't touched mother's money; he'could
n't rob his girls,' he said, and that's all safe for'em. Is n't he
a trump, Polly?” And Tom's face shone with pride, even while his lips
would twitch with a tenderer feeling.
“If I could only do anything to help,” cried Polly, oppressed with her
own powerlessness.
“You can. Go and be good to him; you know how; he needs it enough, all
alone there. I can't do it, for I'm only a curse instead of a comfort
to him.”
“How did he take your news?” asked Polly, who, for a time, had forgotten
the lesser trouble in the greater.
“Like a lamb; for when I'd done, he only said, 'My poor lad, we must
bear with one another.' and then told his story.”
“I'm glad he was kind,” began Polly, in a soothing tone; but Tom cried
out, remorsefully, “That's what knocks me over! Just when I ought to
be a pride and a prop to him, I bring him my debts and disgrace, and he
never says a word of blame. It's no use, I can't stand it!” and Tom's
head went down again with something very like a sob, that would come
in spite of manful efforts to keep it back, for the poor fellow had the
warmest heart that ever was, and all the fine waistcoats outside could
n't spoil it.
That sound gave Polly more pain than the news of a dozen failures and
expulsions, and it was as impossible for her to resist putting her
hand tenderly on the bent head, as it was for her to help noticing with
pleasure how brown the little curls were growing, and how soft they
were. In spite of her sorrow, she enjoyed that minute very much, for she
was a born consoler, and, it is hardly necessary for me to add, loved
this reprehensible Tom with all her heart. It was a very foolish thing
for her to do, she quite agreed to that; she could n't understand it,
explain it, or help it; she only felt that she did care for him very
much, in spite of his faults, his indifference, and his engagement. You
see, she learned to love him one summer, when he made them a visit. That
was before Trix caught him; and when she heard that piece of news, Polly
could n't unlove him all at once, though she tried very hard, as was her
duty. That engagement was such a farce, that she never had much faith
in it, so she put her love away in a corner of her heart, and tried to
forget it, hoping it would either die, or have a right to live. It did
n't make her very miserable, because patience, work, and common-sense
lent her a hand, and hope would keep popping up its bright face from the
bottom of her Pandora-box of troubles. Now and then, when any one said
Trix would n't jilt Tom, or that Tom did care for Trix more than he
should, Polly had a pang, and thought she could n't possibly bear it.
But she always found she could, and so came to the conclusion that it
was a merciful provision of nature that girls' hearts could stand
so much, and their appetites continue good, when unrequited love was
starving.
Now, she could not help yearning over this faulty, well-beloved
scapegrace Tom, or help thinking, with a little thrill of hope, “If Trix
only cared for his money, she may cast him off now he's lost it; but I
'll love him all the better because he's poor.” With this feeling warm
at her heart, I don't wonder that Polly's hand had a soothing effect,
and that after a heave or two, Tom's shoulders were quiet, and certain
smothered sniffs suggested that he would be all right again, if he could
only wipe his eyes without any one's seeing him do it.
Polly seemed to divine his wish, and tucking a little, clean
handkerchief into one of his half-open hands, she said, “I'm going to
your father, now,” and with a farewell smooth, so comforting that Tom
wished she'd do it again, she went away.
As she paused a minute in the hall to steady herself, Maud called her
from above, and thinking that the women might need her more than the
men, she ran up to find Fanny waiting for her in her own room.
“Mamma's asleep, quite worn out, poor dear, so we can talk in here
without troubling her,” said Fanny, receiving her friend so quietly,
that Polly was amazed.
“Let me come, too, I won't make any fuss; it's so dreadful to be shut
out everywhere, and have people crying and talking, and locked up, and I
not know what it means,” said Maud, beseechingly.
“You do know, now; I've told her, Polly,” said Fan, as they sat down
together, and Maud perched herself on the bed, so that she might retire
among the pillows if her feelings were too much for her.
“I'm glad you take it so well, dear; I was afraid it might upset you,”
said Polly, seeing now that in spite of her quiet manner, Fan's eyes had
an excited look, and her cheeks a feverish color.
“I shall groan and moan by and by, I dare say, but at first it sort of
dazed me, and now it begins to excite me. I ought to be full of sorrow
for poor papa, and I am truly sorry, but, wicked as it may seem, it's a
fact, Polly, that I'm half glad it's happened, for it takes me out of
myself, and gives me something to do.”
Fanny's eyes fell and her color rose as she spoke, but Polly understood
why she wanted to forget herself, and put her arm round her with a more
tender sympathy than Fanny guessed.
“Perhaps things are not as bad as they seem; I don't know much about
such matters, but I've seen people who have failed, and they seemed
just as comfortable as before,” said Polly.
“It won't be so with us, for papa means to give up everything, and not
have a word said against him. Mamma's little property is settled upon
her, and has n't been risked. That touched her so much! She dreads
poverty even more than I do, but she begged him to take it if it would
help him. That pleased him, but he said nothing would induce him to
do it, for it would n't help much, and was hardly enough to keep her
comfortable.”
“Do you know what he means to do?” asked Polly, anxiously.
“He said his plans were not made, but he meant to go into the little
house that belonged to grandma, as soon as he could, for it was n't
honest for a bankrupt to keep up an establishment like this.”
“I shan't mind that at all, I like the little house'cause it's got a
garden, and there's a cunning room with a three-cornered closet in it
that I always wanted. If that's all, I don't think bankrupting is so
very bad,” said Maud, taking a cheerful view of things.
“Ah, just wait till the carriage goes and the nice clothes and the
servants, and we have to scratch along as we can. You'll change
your mind then, poor child,” said Fanny, whose ideas of failure were
decidedly tragical.
“Will they take all my things away?” cried Maud, in dismay.
“I dare say; I don't know what we are allowed to keep; but not much,
I fancy,” and Fan looked as if strung up to sacrifice everything she
possessed.
“They shan't have my new ear-rings, I'll hide'em, and my best dress,
and my gold smelling bottle. Oh, oh, oh! I think it's mean to take a
little girl's things away!” And Maud dived among the pillows to smother
a wail of anguish at the prospect of being bereft of her treasures.
Polly soon lured her out again, by assurances that she would n't be
utterly despoiled, and promises to try and soften the hard hearts of
her father's creditors, if the ear-rings and the smelling-bottle were
attached.
“I wonder if we shall be able to keep one servant, just till we learn
how to do the work,” said Fanny, looking at her white hands, with a
sigh.
But Maud clapped hers, and gave a joyful bounce, as she cried, “Now I
can learn to cook! I love so to beat eggs! I'll have an apron, with
a bib to it, like Polly's, and a feather duster, and sweep the stairs,
maybe, with my head tied up, like Katy. Oh, what fun!”
“Don't laugh at her, or discourage her; let her find comfort in bibs and
dust-pans, if she can,” whispered Polly to Fan, while Maud took a joyful
“header” among the pillows, and came up smiling and blowzy, for she
loved house-work, and often got lectured for stolen visits to the
kitchen, and surreptitious sweepings and dustings when the coast was
clear.
“Mamma is so feeble, I shall have to keep house, I suppose, and you must
show me how, Polly,” said Fan.
“Good practice, ma'am, as you'll find out some day,” answered Polly,
laughing significantly.
Fanny smiled, then grew both grave and sad. “This changes everything;
the old set will drop me, as we did the Mertons when their father
failed, and my'prospects,' as we say, are quite ruined.”
“I don't believe it; your real friends won't drop you, and you'll find
out which the true ones are now. I know one friend who will be kinder
than ever.”
“Oh, Polly, do you think so?” and Fanny's eyes softened with sudden
tears.
“I know who she means,” cried Maud, always eager to find out things. “It
's herself; Polly won't mind if we are poor, 'cause she likes beggars.”
“Is that who you meant?” asked Fan, wistfully.
“No, it's a much better and dearer friend than I am,” said Polly,
pinching Fanny's cheek, as it reddened prettily under her eyes. “You'll
never guess, Maud, so I would n't try, but be planning what you will put
in your cunning, three-cornered closet, when you get it.”
Having got rid of “Miss Paulina Pry,” as Tom called Maud, who was
immediately absorbed by her cupboard, the older girls soberly discussed
the sudden change which had come, and Polly was surprised to see what
unexpected strength and sense Fanny showed. Polly was too unconscious
of the change which love had made in herself to understand at first the
cause of her friend's new patience and fortitude; but she rejoiced over
it, and felt that her prophecy would yet be fulfilled. Presently Maud
emerged from her new closet, bringing a somewhat startling idea with
her.
“Do bankrupting men” (Maud liked that new word) “always have fits?”
“Mercy, no! What put that into your head, child?” cried Polly.
“Why, Mr. Merton did; and I was thinking perhaps papa had got one down
there, and it kind of frightened me.”
“Mr. Merton's was a bad, disgraceful failure, and I don't wonder he had
a fit. Ours is n't, and papa won't do anything of that sort, you may be
sure,” said Fanny, with as proud an air as if “our failure” was rather
an honor than otherwise.
“Don't you think you and Maud had better go down and see him?” asked
Polly.
“Perhaps he would n't like it; and I don't know what to say, either,”
began Fan; but Polly said, eagerly, “I know he would like it. Never mind
what you say; just go, and show him that you don't doubt or blame him
for this, but love him all the more, and are ready and glad to help him
bear the trouble.”
“I'm going, I ain't afraid; I'll just hug him, and say I'm ever so
glad we are going to the little house,” cried Maud, scrambling off the
bed, and running down stairs.
“Come with me, Polly, and tell me what to do,” said Fanny, drawing her
friend after her.
“You'll know what to do when you see him, better than I can tell you,”
answered Polly, readily yielding, for she knew they considered her
“quite one of the family,” as Tom said.
At the study door they found Maud, whose courage had given out, for Mr.
Merton's fit rather haunted her. Polly opened the door; and the minute
Fanny saw her father, she did know what to do. The fire was low, the gas
dim, and Mr. Shaw was sitting in his easy-chair, his gray head in both
his hands, looking lonely, old, and bowed down with care. Fanny gave
Polly one look, then went and took the gray head in both her arms,
saying, with a tender quiver in her voice, “Father dear, we've come to
help you bear it.”
Mr. Shaw looked up, and seeing in his daughter's face something that
never had been there before, put his arm about her, and leaned his
tired head against her, as if, when least expected, he had found the
consolation he most needed. In that minute, Fanny felt, with mingled joy
and self-reproach, what a daughter might be to her father; and Polly,
thinking of feeble, selfish Mrs. Shaw, asleep up stairs, saw with
sudden clearness what a wife should be to her husband, a helpmeet, not
a burden. Touched by these unusual demonstrations, Maud crept quietly
to her father's knee, and whispered, with a great tear shining on her
little pug nose, “Papa, we don't mind it much, and I'm going to help
Fan keep house for you; I'd like to do it, truly.”
Mr. Shaw's other arm went round the child, and for a minute no one said
anything, for Polly had slipped behind his chair, that nothing should
disturb the three, who were learning from misfortune how much they loved
one another. Presently Mr. Shaw steadied himself and asked, “Where is my
other daughter, where's my Polly?”
She was there at once; gave him one of the quiet kisses that had more
than usual tenderness in it, for she loved to hear him say “my other
daughter,” and then she whispered, “Don't you want Tom, too?”
“Of course I do; where is the poor fellow?”
“I'll bring him;” and Polly departed with most obliging alacrity.
But in the hall she paused a minute to peep into the glass and see if
she was all right, for somehow she was more anxious to look neat and
pretty to Tom in his hour of trouble than she had ever been in his
prosperous days. In lifting her arms to perk up the bow at her throat
she knocked a hat off the bracket. Now, a shiny black beaver is not an
object exactly calculated to inspire tender or romantic sentiments, one
would fancy, but that particular “stove pipe” seemed to touch Polly to
the heart, for she caught it up, as if its fall suggested a greater one,
smoothed out a slight dint, as if it was symbolical of the hard knocks
its owner's head was now in danger of receiving, and stood looking at
it with as much pity and respect, as if it had been the crown of a
disinherited prince. Girls will do such foolish little things, and
though we laugh at them, I think we like them the better for it, after
all.
Richard was himself again when Polly entered, for the handkerchief had
disappeared, his head was erect, his face was steady, and his whole
air had a dogged composure which seemed to say to fate, “Hit away, I'm
ready.” He did not hear Polly come in, for he was looking fixedly at
the fire with eyes that evidently saw a very different future there
from that which it used to show him; but when she said, “Tom, dear, your
father wants you,” he got up at once, held out his hand to her, saying,
“Come too, we can't get on without you,” and took her back into the
study with him.
Then they had a long talk, for the family troubles seemed to warm and
strengthen the family affection and confidence, and as the young people
listened while Mr. Shaw told them as much of his business perplexities
as they could understand, every one of them blamed him or herself for
going on so gayly and blindly, while the storm was gathering, and the
poor man was left to meet it all alone. Now, however, the thunder-clap
had come, and after the first alarm, finding they were not killed, they
began to discover a certain half-anxious, half-pleasant excitement
in talking it over, encouraging one another, and feeling unusually
friendly, as people do when a sudden shower drives two or three to the
shelter of one umbrella.
It was a sober talk, but not all sad, for Mr. Shaw felt inexpressibly
comforted by his children's unexpected sympathy, and they, trying to
take the downfall cheerfully for his sake, found it easier to bear
themselves. They even laughed occasionally, for the girls, in their
ignorance, asked queer questions; Tom made ludicrously unbusiness-like
propositions; and Maud gave them one hearty peal, that did a world of
good, by pensively remarking, when the plans for the future had been
explained to her, “I'm so relieved; for when papa said we must give up
everything, and mamma called us all beggars, I did think I'd got to go
round asking for cold vittles, with a big basket, and an old shawl over
my head. I said once I'd like that, but I'm afraid I should n't, for I
can't bear Indian cake and cold potatoes, that's what the poor children
always seem to get, and I should hate to have Grace and the rest see me
scuffing round the back gates.”
“My little girl shall never come to that, if I can help it,” said Mr.
Shaw, holding her close, with a look that made Maud add, as she laid her
cheek against his own, “But I'd do it, father, if you asked me to, for
I truly want to help.”
“So do I!” cried Fanny, wondering at the same minute how it would seem
to wear turned silks, and clean her gloves.
Tom said nothing, but drew toward him a paper of figures which his
father had drawn up, and speedily reduced himself to the verge of
distraction by trying to understand them, in his ardent desire to prove
his willingness to put his shoulder to the wheel.
“We shall pull through, children, so don't borrow trouble, only be ready
for discomforts and annoyances. Put your pride in your pockets, and
remember poverty is n't disgraceful, but dishonesty is.”
Polly had always loved kind Mr. Shaw, but now she respected him
heartily, and felt that she had not done him justice when she sometimes
thought that he only cared for making money.
“I should n't wonder if this was a good thing for the whole family,
though it don't look so. Mrs. Shaw will take it the hardest, but it may
stir her up, so she will forget her nerves, and be as busy and happy as
mother is,” said Polly to herself, in a hopeful mood, for poverty was an
old friend, and she had learned long ago not to fear it, but to take its
bitter and its sweet, and make the best of both.
When they parted for the night, Polly slipped away first, to leave them
free, yet could n't help lingering outside to see how tenderly the girls
parted from their father. Tom had n't a word to say for himself, for men
don't kiss, caress, or cry when they feel most, and all he could do to
express his sympathy and penitence, was to wring his father's hand with
a face full of respect, regret, and affection, and then bolt up stairs
as if the furies were after him, as they were, in a mild and modern
form.