An Old-Fashioned Girl. Луиза Мэй Олкотт

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. Hasn’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 hadn’t much faith in sickbed 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 hadn’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 shouldn’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 didn’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 wouldn’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 hadn’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 didn’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 didn’t know that she had made the sunshine, it shone back upon her so pleasantly, that she fell happily asleep, though her Jimmy wasn’t there to say “good-night.”

      Chapter 5

      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 needn’t have felt anxious, for such excessive virtue doesn’t last long enough to lead to translation, except with little prigs in the goody storybooks; 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 hadn’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 doesn’t mean any harm. I wish I hadn’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 didn’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 shouldn’t have secrets from their fathers, then there wouldn’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 haven’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