feminine affliction, the heartache.
“There, I feel better. I ‘ve been needing a good cry for some time,
and now I shall be all right. Never mind it, Polly, I ‘m nervous and
tired; I ‘ve danced too much lately, and dyspepsia makes me blue;”
and Fanny wiped her eyes and laughed.
“Of course it does; you need rest and petting, and here I ‘ve been
scolding you, when I ought to have been extra kind. Now tell me
what I can do for you,” said Polly, with a remorseful face.
“Talk to me, and tell me all about yourself. You don’t seem to have
as many worries as other people. What’s the secret, Polly?” And
Fan looked up with wet eyes, and a wistful face at Polly, who was
putting little dabs of cologne all over her head.
“Well,” said Polly, slowly, “I just try to look on the bright side of
things; that helps one amazingly. Why, you ‘ve no idea how much
goodness and sunshine you can get out of the most unpromising
things, if you make the best of them.”
“I don’t know how,” said Fan, despondently.
“You can learn; I did. I used to croak and fret dreadfully, and get
so unhappy, I was n’t fit for anything. I do it still more than I ought,
but I try not to, and it gets easier, I find. Get a-top of your troubles,
and then they are half cured, Miss Mills says.”
“Everything is so contrary and provoking,” said Fanny, petulantly.
“Now what in the world have you to fret about?” asked Polly,
rather anxiously.
“Quantities of things,” began Fan, and then stopped, for somehow
she felt ashamed to own that she was afflicted because she could
n’t have a new set of furs, go to Paris in the spring, and make Mr.
Sydney love her. She hunted up something more presentable, and
said in a despairing tone, “Well, mother is very poorly, Tom and
Trix quarrel all the time, Maud gets more and more wilful every
day, and papa is worried about his affairs.”
“A sad state of things, but nothing very desperate. Can’t you lend a
hand anywhere? That might do good all round.”
“No; I have n’t the talent for managing people, but I see what ought
to be done.”
“Well, don’t wail about it; keep yourself happy, if you can; it will
help other people to see you cheerful.”
“Just what Tom said,’Keep jolly’; but, dear me, how can one, when
everything is so stupid and tiresome?”
“If ever a girl needed work, it ‘s you!” cried Polly. “You began to
be a young lady so early, that you are tired of everything at
twenty-two. I wish you ‘d go at something, then you ‘d find how
much talent and energy you really had.”
“I know ever so many girls who are just like me, sick to death of
fashionable life but don’t know what to take in its place. I ‘d like to
travel; but papa says he can’t afford it, so I can only drag about and
get on as I may.”
“I pity you rich girls so much, you have so many opportunities, and
don’t seem to know how to use them! I suppose I should do just the
same in your place, but it seems now as if I could be very happy
and useful with plenty of money.”
“You are that without it. There, I won’t croak any more. Let us go
and take a good walk, and don’t you tell any one how I came and
cried like a baby.”
“Never!” said Polly, putting on her bonnet.
“I ought to go and make calls,” said Fanny, “but I don’t feel now as
if I ever wanted to see any of the girls again. Dreadful state of
mind, is n’t it?”
“Suppose you come and see some of my friends instead! They are
not fine or ceremonious, but lively, odd, and pleasant. Come, it
will amuse you.”
“I will,” cried Fanny, whose spirits seemed improved by the
shower. “Nice little old lady, is n’t she?” added Fan, as she caught
sight of Miss Mills, on their way out, sitting at a table piled with