POLLY'S happiest day was Sunday, for Will never failed to spend it with her. Instead of sleeping later than usual that morning, she was always up bright and early, flying round to get ready for her guest, for Will came to breakfast, and they made a long day of it. Will considered his sister the best and prettiest girl going, and Polly, knowing well that a time would come when he would find a better and a prettier, was grateful for his good opinion, and tried to deserve it. So she made her room and herself as neat and inviting as possible, and always ran to meet him with a bright face and a motherly greeting, when he came tramping in, ruddy, brisk, and beaming, with the brown loaf and the little pot of beans from the bake-house near by.
They liked a good country breakfast, and nothing gave Polly more satisfaction than to see her big boy clear the dishes, empty the little coffee-pot, and then sit and laugh at her across the ravaged table. Another pleasure was to let him help clear away, as they used to do at home, while the peals of laughter that always accompanied this performance did Miss Mills' heart good to hear, for the room was so small and Will so big that he seemed to be everywhere at once, and Polly and Puttel were continually dodging his long arms and legs. Then they used to inspect the flower pots, pay Nick a visit, and have a little music as a good beginning for the day, after which they went to church and dined with Miss Mills, who considered Will “an excellent young man.” If the afternoon was fair, they took a long walk together over the bridges into the country, or about the city streets full of Sabbath quietude. Most people meeting them would have seen only an awkward young man, with a boy's face atop of his tall body, and a quietly dressed, fresh faced little woman hanging on his arm; but a few people, with eyes to read romances and pleasant histories everywhere, found something very attractive in this couple, and smiled as they passed, wondering if they were young, lovers, or country cousins “looking round.”
If the day was stormy, they stayed at home, reading, writing letters, talking over their affairs, and giving each other good advice; for, though Will was nearly three years younger than Polly, he could n't for the life of him help assuming amusingly venerable airs, when he became a Freshman. In the twilight he had a good lounge on the sofa, and Polly sung to him, which arrangement he particularly enjoyed, it was so “cosy and homey.” At nine o'clock, Polly packed his bag with clean clothes, nicely mended, such remnants of the festive tea as were transportable, and kissed him “good-night,” with many injunctions to muffle up his throat going over the bridge, and be sure that his feet were dry and warm when he went to bed. All of which Will laughed at, accepted graciously, and did n't obey; but he liked it, and trudged away for another week's work, rested, cheered, and strengthened by that quiet, happy day with Polly, for he had been brought up to believe in home influences, and this brother and sister loved one another dearly, and were not ashamed to own it.
One other person enjoyed the humble pleasures of these Sundays quite as much as Polly and Will. Maud used to beg to come to tea, and Polly, glad to do anything for those who had done a good deal for her, made a point of calling for the little girl as they came home from their walk, or sending Will to escort her in the carriage, which Maud always managed to secure if bad weather threatened to quench her hopes. Tom and Fanny laughed at her fancy, but she did not tire of it, for the child was lonely, and found something in that little room which the great house could not give her.
Maud was twelve now; a pale, plain child, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and a busy little mind, that did a good deal more thinking than anybody imagined. She was just at the unattractive, fidgety age when no one knew what to do with her, and so let her fumble her way up as she could, finding pleasure in odd things, and living much alone, for she did not go to school, because her shoulders were growing round, and Mrs. Shaw would not “allow her figure to be spoiled.” That suited Maud excellently; and whenever her father spoke of sending her again, or getting a governess, she was seized with bad headaches, a pain in her back, or weakness of the eyes, at which Mr. Shaw laughed, but let her holiday go on. Nobody seemed to care much for plain, pug-nosed little Maudie; her father was busy, her mother nervous and sick, Fanny absorbed in her own affairs, and Tom regarded her as most young men do their younger sisters, as a person born for his amusement and convenience, nothing more. Maud admired Tom with all her heart, and made a little slave of herself to him, feeling well repaid if he merely said, “Thank you, chicken,” or did n't pinch her nose, or nip her ear, as he had a way of doing, “just as if I was a doll, or a dog, and had n't got any feelings,” she sometimes said to Fanny, when some service or sacrifice had been accepted without gratitude or respect. It never occurred to Tom, when Maud sat watching him with her face full of wistfulness, that she wanted to be petted as much as ever he did in his neglected boyhood, or that when he called her “Pug” before people, her little feelings were as deeply wounded as his used to be, when the boys called him “Carrots.” He was fond of her in his fashion, but he did n't take the trouble to show it, so Maud worshipped him afar off, afraid to betray the affection that no rebuff could kill or cool.
One snowy Sunday afternoon Tom lay on the sofa in his favorite attitude, reading “Pendennis” for the fourth time, and smoking like a chimney as he did so. Maud stood at the window watching the falling flakes with an anxious countenance, and presently a great sigh broke from her.
“Don't do that again, chicken, or you'll blow me away. What's the matter?” asked Tom, throwing down his book with a yawn that threatened dislocation.
“I'm afraid I can't go to Polly's,” answered Maud, disconsolately.
“Of course you can't; it's snowing hard, and father won't be home with the carriage till this evening. What are you always cutting off to Polly's for?”
“I like it; we have such nice times, and Will is there, and we bake little johnny-cakes in the baker before the fire, and they sing, and it is so pleasant.”
“Warbling johnny-cakes must be interesting. Come and tell me all about it.”
“No, you'll only laugh at me.”
“I give you my word I won't, if I can help it; but I really am dying of curiosity to know what you do down there. You like to hear secrets, so tell me yours, and I'll be as dumb as an oyster.”
“It is n't a secret, and you would n't care for it. Do you want another pillow?” she added, as Tom gave his a thump.
“This will do; but why you women always stick tassels and fringe all over a sofa-cushion, to tease and tickle a fellow, is what I don't understand.”
“One thing that Polly does Sunday nights, is to take Will's head in her lap, and smooth his forehead. It rests him after studying so hard, she says. If you don't like the pillow, I could do that for you, 'cause you look as if you were more tired of studying than Will,” said Maud, with some hesitation, but an evident desire to be useful and agreeable.
“Well, I don't care if you do try it, for I am confoundedly tired.” And Tom laughed, as he recalled the frolic he had been on the night before.
Maud established herself with great satisfaction, and Tom owned that a silk apron was nicer than a fuzzy cushion.
“Do you like it?” she asked, after a few strokes over the hot forehead, which she thought was fevered by intense application to Greek and Latin.
“Not bad; play away,” was the gracious reply, as Tom shut his eyes, and lay so still that Maud was charmed at the success of her attempt. Presently, she said, softly, “Tom, are you asleep?”
“Just turning the corner.”
“Before you get quite round would you please tell me what a Public Admonition is?”
“What do you want to know for?” demanded Tom, opening his eyes very wide.
“I heard Will talking about Publics and Privates, and I meant to ask him, but I forgot.”
“What did he say?”
“I don't remember; it was about somebody who cut prayers, and got a Private, and had done all sorts of bad things, and had one or two Publics. I did n't hear the name and did n't care; I only wanted to know what the words meant.”
“So Will tells tales, does he?” and Tom's forehead wrinkled with a frown.
“No, he did n't; Polly knew about it and asked him.”
“Will's a'dig,'” growled Tom, shutting his eyes again, as if nothing more could be said of the delinquent William.
“I don't care if he is; I like him very much, and so does Polly.”
“Happy Fresh!” said Tom, with a comical groan.
“You need n't sniff at him, for he is nice, and treats me with respect,” cried Maud, with an energy that made Tom laugh in her face.
“He's good to Polly always, and puts on her cloak for her, and says'my dear,' and kisses her'good-night,' and don't think it's silly, and I wish I had a brother just like him, yes, I do!” And Maud showed signs of woe, for her disappointment about going was very great.
“Bless my boots! what's the chicken ruffling up her little feathers and pecking at me for? Is that the way Polly soothes the best of brothers?” said Tom, still laughing.
“Oh, I forgot! there, I won't cry; but I do want to go,” and Maud swallowed her tears, and began to stroke again.
Now Tom's horse and sleigh were in the stable, for he meant to drive out to College that evening, but he did n't take Maud's hint. It was less trouble to lie still, and say in a conciliatory tone, “Tell me some more about this good boy, it's very interesting.”
“No, I shan't, but I'll tell about Puttel's playing on the piano,” said Maud, anxious to efface the memory of her momentary weakness. “Polly points to the right key with a little stick, and Puttel sits on the stool and pats each key as it's touched, and it makes a tune. It's so funny to see her, and Nick perches on the rack and sings as if he'd kill himself.”
“Very thrilling,” said Tom, in a sleepy tone.
Maud felt that her conversation was not as interesting as she hoped, and tried again.
“Polly thinks you are handsomer than Mr. Sydney.”
“Much obliged.”
“I asked which she thought had the nicest face, and she said yours was the handsomest, and his the best.”
“Does he ever go there?” asked a sharp voice behind them; and looking round Maud saw Fanny in the big chair, cooking her feet over the register.
“I never saw him there; he sent up some books one day, and Will teased her about it.”
“What did she do?” demanded Fanny. “Oh, she shook him.”
“What a spectacle!” and Tom looked as if he would have enjoyed seeing it, but Fanny's face grew so forbidding, that Tom's little dog, who was approaching to welcome her, put his tail between his legs and fled under the table.
“Then there is n't any 'Sparking Sunday night'?” sung Tom, who appeared to have waked up again.
“Of course not. Polly is n't going to marry anybody; she's going to keep house for Will when he's a minister, I heard her say so,” cried Maud, with importance.
“What a fate for pretty Polly!” ejaculated Tom.
“She likes it, and I'm sure I should think she would; it's beautiful to hear'em plan it all out.”
“Any more gossip to retail, Pug?” asked Tom a minute after, as Maud seemed absorbed in visions of the future.
“He told a funny story about blowing up one of the professors. You never told us, so I suppose you did n't know it. Some bad fellow put a torpedo, or some sort of powder thing, under the chair, and it went off in the midst of the lesson, and the poor man flew up, frightened most to pieces, and the boys ran with pails of water to put the fire out. But the thing that made Will laugh most was, that the very fellow who did it got his trousers burnt trying to put out the fire, and he asked the is it Faculty or President?”
“Either will do,” murmured Tom, who was shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Well, he asked'em to give him some new ones, and they did give him money enough, for a nice pair; but he got some cheap ones, with horrid great stripes on'em, and always wore'em to that particular class, 'which was one too many for the fellows,' Will said, and with the rest of the money he had a punch party. Was n't it dreadful?”
“Awful!” And Tom exploded into a great laugh, that made Fanny cover her ears, and the little dog bark wildly.
“Did you know that bad boy?” asked innocent Maud.
“Slightly,” gasped Tom, in whose wardrobe at college those identical trousers were hanging at that moment.
“Don't make such a noise, my head aches dreadfully,” said Fanny, fretfully.
“Girls' heads always do ache,” answered Tom, subsiding from a roar into a chuckle.
“What pleasure you boys can find in such ungentlemanly things, I don't see,” said Fanny, who was evidently out of sorts.
“As much a mystery to you as it is to us, how you girls can like to gabble and prink from one week's end to the other,” retorted Tom.
There was a pause after this little passage-at-arms, but Fan wanted to be amused, for time hung heavily on her hands, so she asked, in a more amiable tone, “How's Trix?”
“As sweet as ever,” answered Tom, gruffly.
“Did she scold you, as usual?”
“She just did.”
“What was the matter?”
“Well, I'll leave it to you if this is n't unreasonable: she won't dance with me herself, yet don't like me to go it with anybody else. I said, I thought, if a fellow took a girl to a party, she ought to dance with him once, at least, especially if they were engaged. She said that was the very reason why she should n't do it; so, at the last hop, I let her alone, and had a gay time with Belle, and to-day Trix gave it to me hot and heavy, coming home from church.”
“If you go and engage yourself to a girl like that, I don't know what you can expect. Did she wear her Paris hat to-day?” added Fan, with sudden interest in her voice.
“She wore some sort of a blue thing, with a confounded bird of Paradise in it, that kept whisking into my face every time she turned her head.”
“Men never know a pretty thing when they see it. That hat is perfectly lovely.”
“They know a lady when they see her, and Trix don't look like one; I can't say where the trouble is, but there's too much fuss and feathers for my taste. You are twice as stylish, yet you never look loud or fast.”
Touched by this unusual compliment, Fanny drew her chair nearer as she replied with complacency, “Yes, I flatter myself I do know how to dress well. Trix never did; she's fond of gay colors, and generally looks like a walking rainbow.”
“Can't you give her a hint? Tell her not to wear blue gloves anyway, she knows I hate'em.”
“I've done my best for your sake, Tom, but she is a perverse creature, and don't mind a word I say, even about things much more objectionable than blue gloves.”
“Maudie, run and bring me my other cigar case, it's lying round somewhere.”
Maud went; and as soon as the door was shut, Tom rose on his elbow, saying in a cautiously lowered voice, “Fan, does Trix paint?”
“Yes, and draws too,” answered Fanny, with a sly laugh.
“Come, you know what I mean; I've a right to ask and you ought to tell,” said Tom, soberly, for he was beginning to find that being engaged was not unmitigated bliss.
“What makes you think she does?”
“Well, between ourselves,” said Tom, looking a little sheepish, but anxious to set his mind at rest, “she never will let me kiss her on her cheek, nothing but an unsatisfactory peck at her lips. Then the other day, as I took a bit of heliotrope out of a vase to put in my button-hole, I whisked a drop of water into her face; I was going to wipe it off, but she pushed my hand away, and ran to the glass, where she carefully dabbed it dry, and came back with one cheek redder than the other. I did n't say anything, but I had my suspicions. Come now, does she?”
“Yes, she does; but don't say a word to her, for she'll never forgive my telling if she knew it.”
“I don't care for that; I don't like it, and I won't have it,” said Tom, decidedly.
“You can't help yourself. Half the girls do it, either paint or powder, darken their lashes with burnt hair-pins, or take cologne on lumps of sugar or belladonna to make their eyes bright. Clara tried arsenic for her complexion, but her mother stopped it,” said Fanny, betraying the secrets of the prison-house in the basest manner.
“I knew you girls were a set of humbugs, and very pretty ones, too, some of you, but I can't say I like to see you painted up like a lot of actresses,” said Tom, with an air of disgust.
“I don't do anything of the sort, or need it, but Trix does; and having chosen her, you must abide your choice, for better or worse.”
“It has n't come to that yet,” muttered Tom, as he lay down again with a rebellious air.
Maud's return put an end to these confidences, though Tom excited her curiosity by asking the mysterious question, “I say, Fan, is Polly up to that sort of thing?”
“No, she thinks it's awful. When she gets pale and dragged out she will probably change her mind.”
“I doubt it,” said Tom.
“Polly says it is n't proper to talk secrets before people who ain't in 'em,” observed Maud, with dignity.
“Do, for mercy sake, stop talking about Polly, I'm sick to death of it,” cried Fanny, snappishly.
“Hullo!” and Tom sat up to take a survey. “I thought you were bosom friends, and as spoony as ever.”
“Well, I am fond of Polly, but I get tired of hearing Maud sing her praises everlastingly. Now don't go and repeat that, chatterbox.”
“My goodness, is n't she cross?” whispered Maud to Tom.
“As two sticks; let her be. There's the bell; see who it is, Pug,” answered Tom, as a tingle broke the silence of the house.
Maud went to peep over the banisters, and came flying back in a rapture.
“It's Will come for me! Can't I go? It don't snow hard, and I'll bundle up, and you can send for me when papa comes.”
“I don't care what you do,” answered Fan, who was in a very bad temper.
Without waiting for any other permission, Maud rushed away to get ready. Will would n't come up, he was so snowy, and Fanny was glad, because with her he was bashful, awkward, and silent, so Tom went down and entertained him with Maud's report. They were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being a “dig,” and Tom a “bird,” or, in plain English, one was a hard student, and the other a jolly young gentleman. Tom had rather patronized Will, who did n't like it, and showed that he did n't by refusing to borrow money of him, or accept any of his invitations to join the clubs and societies to which Tom belonged. So Shaw let Milton alone, and he got on very well in his own way, doggedly sticking to his books, and resisting all temptations but those of certain libraries, athletic games, and such inexpensive pleasures as were within his means; for this benighted youth had not yet discovered that college nowadays is a place in which to “sky-lark,” not to study.
When Maud came down and trotted contentedly away, holding Will's hand, Tom watched them out of sight, and then strolled about the house whistling and thinking, till he went to sleep in his father's arm-chair, for want of something better to do. He awoke to the joys of a solitary tea, for his mother never came down, and Fanny shut herself and her headache up in her own room.
“Well, this is cheerful,” he said, as the clock struck eight, and his fourth cigar came to an end. “Trix is mad, and Fan in the dumps, so I'll take myself off. Guess I'll go round to Polly's, and ask Will to drive out with me, and save him the walk, poor chap. Might bring Midget home, it will please her, and there's no knowing when the governor will be back.”
With these thoughts in his head, Tom leisurely got under way, and left his horse at a neighboring stable, for he meant to make a little call, and see what it was Maud enjoyed so much.
“Polly is holding forth,” he said to himself, as he went quietly up stairs, and the steady murmur of a pleasant voice came down to him. Tom laughed at Polly's earnest way of talking when she was interested in anything. But he liked it because it was so different from the coquettish clatter of most of the girls with whom he talked. Young men often laugh at the sensible girls whom they secretly respect, and affect to admire the silly ones whom they secretly despise, because earnestness, intelligence, and womanly dignity are not the fashion.
The door was ajar, and pausing in the dark entry Tom took a survey before he went in. The prospect was not dazzling, but home-like and pleasant. The light of a bright fire filled the little room, and down on a stool before it was Maud tending Puttel, and watching with deep interest the roasting of an apple intended for her special benefit. On the couch lounged Will, his thoughtful eyes fixed on Polly, who, while she talked, smoothed the broad forehead of her “yellow-haired laddie” in a way that Tom thought an immense improvement on Maud's performance. They had evidently been building castles in the air, for Polly was saying in her most impressive manner, “Well, whatever you do, Will, don't have a great, costly church that takes so much money to build and support it that you have nothing to give away. I like the plain, old-fashioned churches, built for use, not show, where people met for hearty praying and preaching, and where everybody made their own music instead of listening to opera singers, as we do now. I don't care if the old churches were bare and cold, and the seats hard, there was real piety in them, and the sincerity of it was felt in the lives of the people. I don't want a religion that I put away with my Sunday clothes, and don't take out till the day comes round again; I want something to see and feel and live by day-by-day, and I hope you'll be one of the true ministers, who can teach by precept and example, how to get and keep it.”
“I hope I shall be, Polly, but you know they say that in families, if there is a boy who can't do anything else, they make a minister of him. I sometimes think I ain't good for much, and that seems to me the reason why I should n't even try to be a minister,” said Will, smiling, yet looking as if with all his humility he did have faith in the aspirations that came to him in his best moments.
“Some one said that very thing to father once, and I remember he answered, 'I am glad to give my best and brightest son to the service of God.'”
“Did he say that?” and Will's color rose, for the big, book-loving fellow was as sensitive as a girl to the praise of those dearest to him.
“Yes,” said Polly, unconsciously giving the strongest stimulus to her brother's hope and courage. “Yes, and he added, 'I shall let my boys follow the guide that is in them, and only ask of them to use their gifts conscientiously, and be honest, useful men.'”
“So we will! Ned is doing well out West, and I'm hard at it here. If father does his best to give us the chance we each want, the least we can do is to work with a will.”
“Whatever you do, you can't help working with a Will,” cried Tom, who had been so interested, that he forgot he was playing eavesdropper.
Polly flew up, looking so pleased and surprised, that Tom reproached himself for not having called oftener.
“I've come for Maud,” he announced, in a paternal tone, which made that young lady open her eyes.
“I can't go till my apple is done; besides, it is n't nine yet, and Will is going to take me along, when he goes. I'd rather have him.”
“I'm going to take you both in the cutter. The storm is over, but it is heavy walking, so you'll drive out with me, old man?” said Tom, with a nod at Will.
“Of course he will; and thank you very much. I've been trying to keep him all night; Miss Mills always manages to find a corner for stray people, but he insists on going, so as to get to work early to-morrow,” said Polly, delighted to see that Tom was taking off his coat, as if he meant to wait for Maud's apple, which Polly blessed for being so slow to cook.
Putting her guest into the best chair, Polly sat down and beamed at him with such hospitable satisfaction, that Tom went up several pegs in his own estimation.
“You don't come very often, so we are rather over-powered when you do honor us,” she said, demurely.
“Well, you, know we fellows are so busy, we have n't much time to enjoy ourselves,” answered Tom.
“Ahem!” said Will, loudly.
“Take a troche,” said Tom.
Then they both burst out laughing, and Polly, fully understanding the joke, joined them, saying, “Here are some peanuts, Tom; do enjoy yourself while you can.”
“Now I call that a delicate compliment!” And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction.
“Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?” asked Polly.
“Of course I do, and how we coasted one day,” answered Tom, laughing.
“Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see.”
“I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly.”
“I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward.”
“Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it.”
“Could n't help myself,” laughed Polly. “I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it.”
“She had so much of it at home, she got used to it,” put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear.
“You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know.”
“Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't,” observed Maud, with a venerable air.
“Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot,” said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face.
“It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty,” added Polly, softly.
“Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says,” said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public.
“You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you 'll have to leave it, Pug,” said Tom, looking annoyed.
“How is Fan?” asked Polly, with tact.
“Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross.”
“She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead,” added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care.
“We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me,” said Polly, gratefully.
“I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do,” said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable.
“Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I 'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though,” thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters.
“I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it.”
Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, “It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now.”
“He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him,” said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom.
“He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know.”
“I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind,” said Polly, warningly.
“Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog,” answered Tom, rather soberly.
“I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out,” said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it.
“Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken,” he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor.
Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, “Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will.”
“Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me,” answered Tom.
“But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much.”
“Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?” said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible.
“I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now.”
The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and “keep him straight for Polly's sake”; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task.
“I'll do my best,” he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him.
“There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of,” said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things.
“You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod.
“Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?” whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face.
“See if she don't;” and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project.
“Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow,” said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it “girl's nonsense” Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep.
Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly.
“Good night; take care of yourself, my dear.”
Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification.
It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study.
He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them.
DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you.
Yours ever, FAN.
“Bad news, my dear?” asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival.
Polly told her what it was, adding, “I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh.”
“Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves,” and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt.
“I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin,” said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work.
“We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor.”
“To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls,” said Polly, frankly.
“You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name.”
“I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer,” said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten.
“This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'” added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; “but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so.”
“I'll try!” said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest.
Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us.
Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared.
“Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?” asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty.
“Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture,” answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested.
As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life.
“You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better,” said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself.
“Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock,” replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at.
Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute.
In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion.
“Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?”
“We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry,” said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor.
“That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?” said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society.
“Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses,” answered Belle.
“I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied,” remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing.
“Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer,” said Trix, with an important air. “I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid.”
“There's a chance for Jane,” thought Polly, but had n't courage “to speak out loud in meeting,” just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private.
“Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must,” said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called “odd” among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire.
“Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!” said Belle, in a low tone.
“Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman,” said Polly, warmly.
“And you are another,” answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way.
“Hush! Trix has the floor.”
“If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year.”
“It's perfectly shameful!” said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. “Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble,” observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid.
“Perky don't practise as she preaches,” whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. “She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation.”
Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, “Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace.”
“There can't be too much charity!” burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once.
“Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you,” returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most “toploftical stare,” as the girls called it.
I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, “I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death.”
A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever.
“Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it 's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after,” said Trix, with an aggravating laugh.
Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, “I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine.”
“Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it.”
Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom.
“Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially,” added Belle, under her breath.
That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, “Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable.”
“It's the genius that gets into the books, which makes us like the poverty, I fancy. But I don't quite agree that the real thing is n't interesting. I think it would be, if we knew how to look at and feel it,” said Polly, very quietly, as she pushed her chair out of the arctic circle of Miss Perkins, into the temperate one of friendly Emma.
“But how shall we learn that? I don't see what we girls can do, more than we do now. We have n't much money for such things, should n't know how to use it if we had; and it is n't proper for us to go poking into dirty places, to hunt up the needy. 'Going about doing good, in pony phaetons,' as somebody says, may succeed in England, but it won't work here,” said Fanny, who had begun, lately, to think a good deal of some one beside herself, and so found her interest in her fellow-beings increasing daily.
“We can't do much, perhaps, just yet; but still there are things left undone that naturally fall to us. I know a house,” said Polly, sewing busily as she talked, “where every servant who enters it becomes an object of interest to the mistress and her daughters. These women are taught good habits, books are put where they can get them, sensible amusements are planned for them sometimes, and they soon feel that they are not considered mere scrubs, to do as much work as possible, for as little money as possible, but helpers in the family, who are loved and respected in proportion to their faithfulness. This lady feels her duty to them, owns it, and does it, as conscientiously as she wants them to do theirs by her; and that is the way it ought to be, I think.”
As Polly paused, several keen eyes discovered that Emma's cheeks were very red, and saw a smile lurking in the corners of the mouth that tried to look demure, which told them who Polly meant.
“Do the Biddies all turn out saints in that well regulated family?” asked the irrepressible Trix.
“No; few of us do that, even in the parlor; but every one of the Biddies is better for being there, whether they are grateful or not. I ought not to have mentioned this, perhaps, but I wanted to show you one thing that we girls can do. We all complain about bad servants, most as much as if we were house-keepers ourselves; but it never occurs to us to try and mend the matter, by getting up a better spirit between mistress and maid. Then there's another thing we can do,” added Polly, warming up. “Most of us find money enough for our little vanities and pleasures, but feel dreadfully poor when we come to pay for work, sewing especially. Could n't we give up a few of the vanities, and pay the seamstresses better?”
“I declare I will!” cried Belle, whose conscience suddenly woke, and smote her for beating down the woman who did her plain sewing, in order that she might have an extra flounce on a new dress. “Belle has got a virtuous fit; pity it won't last a week,” said Trix.
“Wait and see,” retorted Belle, resolving that it should last, just to disappoint “that spiteful minx;” as she sweetly called her old school-mate.
“Now we shall behold Belle galloping away at a great pace, on her new hobby. I should n't be surprised to hear of her preaching in the jail, adopting a nice dirty little orphan, or passing round tracts at a Woman's Rights meeting,” said Trix, who never could forgive Belle for having a lovely complexion, and so much hair of her own that she never patronized either rats, mice, waterfalls, switches, or puff-combs.
“Well, I might do worse; and I think, of the two, I'd rather amuse myself so, than as some young ladies do, who get into the papers for their pranks,” returned Belle, with a moral air.
“Suppose we have a little recess, and rest while Polly plays to us. Will you, Polly? It will do us good; they all want to hear you, and begged I'd ask.”
“Then I will, with pleasure”; and Polly went to the piano with such obliging readiness, that several reproachful glances fell upon Trix, who did n't need her glass to see them.
Polly was never too sad, perturbed, or lazy to sing, for it was almost as easy to her as breathing, and seemed the most natural outlet for her emotions. For a minute her hands wandered over the keys, as if uncertain what to play; then, falling into a sad, sweet strain, she sang “The Bridge of Sighs.” Polly did n't know why she chose it, but the instinct seemed to have been a true one, for, old as the song was, it went straight to the hearts of the hearers, and Polly sung it better than she ever had before, for now the memory of little Jane lent it a tender pathos which no art could give. It did them all good, for music is a beautiful magician, and few can resist its power. The girls were touched by the appeal; Polly was lifted out of herself, and when she turned round, the softened look on all the faces told her that for the moment foolish differences and frivolous beliefs were forgotten in the one womanly sentiment of pity for the wrongs and woes of which the listeners' happy lives were ignorant.
“That song always makes me cry, and feel as if I had no right to be so comfortable,” said Belle, openly wiping her eyes on a crash towel.
“Fortunately such cases are very rare,” said another young lady, who seldom read the newspapers.
“I wish they were, but I'm afraid they are not; for only three weeks ago, I saw a girl younger than any of us, and no worse, who tried to destroy herself simply because she was so discouraged, sick, and poor,” said Polly.
“Do tell about her,” cried Belle, eagerly.
Feeling that the song had paved the way for the story, and given her courage to tell it, Polly did tell it, and must have done it well, for the girls stopped work to listen, and when she ended, other eyes beside warm-hearted Belle's were wet. Trix looked quite subdued; Miss Perkins thawed to such a degree, that something glittered on her hand as she bent over the pink pinafore again, better and brighter than her biggest diamond; Emma got up and went to Polly with a face full of affectionate respect, while Fanny, moved by a sudden impulse, caught up a costly Sevres plate that stood on the etagere, and laying a five-dollar bill in it, passed it round, quoting Polly's words, “Girls, I know you'll like to help poor little Jenny'begin again, and do better this time.'”
It was good to see how quickly the pretty purses were out, how generously each gave of its abundance, and what hearty applause broke from the girls, as Belle laid down her gold thimble, saying with an April face, “There, take that; I never have any money, somehow it won't stay with me, but I can't let the plate pass me this time.”
When Fanny brought the contributions to Polly, she just gathered it up in her two hands with such a glad, grateful face, the girls wished they had had more to give.
“I can't thank you enough,” she said, with an eloquent little choke in her voice. “This will help Jenny very much; but the way in which it was done will do her more good than double the money, because it will prove to her that she is n't without friends, and make her feel that there is a place in the world for her. Let her work for you in return for this; she don't ask alms, she only wants employment and a little kindness, and the best charity we can bestow is to see that she has both.”
“I'll give her as much sewing as she wants, and she can stay at our house while she does it, if she needs a home,” said Trix, in a spasm of benevolence.
“She does n't need a home, thank you; Miss Mills has given half of hers, and considers Jane her child,” answered Polly, with proud satisfaction in the fact.
“What an old dear!” cried Belle.
“I want to know her. May I?” whispered Emma.
“Oh, yes; I'm glad to make her known to any one. She is a quiet little old lady, but she does one heaps of good, and shows you how to be charitable in the wisest way.”
“Do tell us about it. I'm sure I want to do my duty, but it's such a muddle, I don't know how,” said Belle.
Then, quite naturally, the conversation fell upon the great work that none should be too busy to think of, and which few are too young or too poor to help on with their mite. The faces grew more earnest, the fingers flew faster, as the quick young hearts and brains took in the new facts, ideas, and plans that grew out of the true stories, the sensible hints, the successful efforts which Polly told them, fresh from the lips of Miss Mills; for, of late, Polly had talked much with the good lady, and learned quickly the lessons her unselfish life conveyed. The girls found this more interesting than gossip, partly owing to its novelty, doubtless; but the enthusiasm was sincere while it lasted, and did them good. Many of them forgot all about it in a week, but Polly's effort was not lost, for Emma, Belle, and Fanny remained firm friends to Jane, so kindly helping her that the poor child felt as if she had indeed been born again, into a new and happy world.
Not till long afterward did Polly see how much good this little effort had done her, for the first small sacrifice of this sort leads the way to others, and a single hand's turn given heartily to the world's great work helps one amazingly with one's own small tasks. Polly found this out as her life slowly grew easier and brighter, and the beautiful law of compensation gave her better purposes and pleasures than any she had lost. The parents of some of her pupils were persons of real refinement, and such are always quick to perceive the marks of culture in others, no matter where they find them. These, attracted first by Polly's cheerful face, modest manners, and faithful work, soon found in her something more than a good teacher; they found a real talent for music, an eager desire for helpful opportunities, and a heart grateful for the kindly sympathy that makes rough places smooth. Fortunately those who have the skill to detect these traits also possess the spirit to appreciate and often the power to serve and develop them. In ways so delicate that the most sensitive pride could not resent the favor, these true gentlefolk showed Polly their respect and regard, put many pleasures in her way, and when they paid her for her work, gave her also the hearty thanks that takes away all sense of degradation even from the humblest service, for money so earned and paid sweetens the daily bread it buys, and makes the mutual obligation a mutual benefit and pleasure.
A few such patrons did much for Polly, and the music she gave them had an undertone of gratitude that left blithe echoes in those great houses, which money could not buy.
Then, as her butterfly acquaintances deserted her, she found her way into a hive of friendly bees, who welcomed her, and showed her how to find the honey that keeps life sweet and wholesome. Through Miss Mills, who was the counsellor and comforter of several, Polly came to know a little sisterhood of busy, happy, independent girls, who each had a purpose to execute, a talent to develop, an ambition to achieve, and brought to the work patience and perseverance, hope and courage. Here Polly found her place at once, for in this little world love and liberty prevailed; talent, energy, and character took the first rank; money, fashion, and position were literally nowhere; for here, as in the big world outside, genius seemed to blossom best when poverty was head gardener. Young teachers, doing much work for little pay; young artists, trying to pencil, paint, or carve their way to Rome; young writers, burning to distinguish themselves; young singers, dreaming of triumphs, great as those of Jenny Lind; and some who tried to conquer independence, armed only with a needle, like poor Jane. All these helped Polly as unconsciously as she helped them, for purpose and principle are the best teachers we can have, and the want of them makes half the women of America what they are, restless, aimless, frivolous, and sick.