do in such cases, thought she would “wait and see.”
The discovery of Fanny’s secret seemed to show her something to
do, for if the “wait and see” decision was making her friend
unhappy, it must be changed as soon as possible. This finished
Polly’s indecision, and after that night she never allowed herself to
dwell upon the pleasant temptation which came in a guise
particularly attractive to a young girl with a spice of the old Eve in
her composition. So day after day she trudged through the dull
back streets, longing for the sunny park, the face that always
brightened when it saw her coming, and most of all the chance of
meeting well, it was n’t Trix.
When Saturday came, Polly started as usual for a visit to Becky
and Bess, but could n’t resist stopping at the Shaws’ to leave a little
parcel for Fan, though it was calling time. As she stepped in,
meaning to run up for a word if Fanny should chance to be alone,
two hats on the hall table arrested her.
“Who is here, Katy?”
“Only Mr. Sydney and Master Tom. Won’t you stop a bit, Miss
Polly?”
“Not this morning, I ‘m rather in a hurry.” And away went Polly as
if a dozen eager pupils were clamoring for her presence. But as the
door shut behind her she felt so left out in the cold, that her eyes
filled, and when Nep, Tom’s great Newfoundland, came
blundering after her, she stopped and hugged his shaggy head,
saying softly, as she looked into the brown, benevolent eyes, full of
almost human sympathy: “Now, go back, old dear, you must n’t
follow me. Oh, Nep, it ‘s so hard to put love away when you want
it very much and it is n’t right to take it.” A foolish little speech to
make to a dog, but you see Polly was only a tender-hearted girl,
trying to do her duty.
“Since he is safe with Fanny, I may venture to walk where I like. It
‘s such a lovely day, all the babies will be out, and it always does
me good to see them,” thought Polly, turning into the wide, sunny
street, where West End-dom promenaded at that hour.
The babies were out in full force, looking as gay and delicate and
sweet as the snow-drops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks
whence the snow had melted. But somehow the babies did n’t do
Polly the good she expected, though they smiled at her from their
carriages, and kissed their chubby hands as she passed them, for
Polly had the sort of face that babies love. One tiny creature in
blue plush was casting despairing glances after a very small lord of
creation who was walking away with a toddling belle in white,
while a second young gentleman in gorgeous purple gaiters was
endeavoring to console the deserted damsel.
“Take hold of Master Charley’s hand, Miss Mamie, and walk
pretty, like Willy and Flossy,” said the maid.
“No, no, I want to do wid Willy, and he won’t let me. Do ‘way,
Tarley, I don’t lite you,” cried little Blue-bonnet, casting down her
ermine muff and sobbing in a microscopic handkerchief, the
thread-lace edging on which could n’t mitigate her woe, as it might
have done that of an older sufferer.
“Willy likes Flossy best, so stop crying and come right along, you
naughty child.”
As poor little Dido was jerked away by the unsympathetic maid,
and Purple-gaiters essayed in vain to plead his cause, Polly said to
herself, with a smile and a sigh; “How early the old story begins!”
It seemed as if the spring weather had brought out all manner of
tender things beside fresh grass and the first dandelions, for as she
went down the street Polly kept seeing different phases of the
sweet old story which she was trying to forget.
At a street corner, a black-eyed school-boy was parting from a
rosy-faced school-girl, whose music roll he was reluctantly
surrendering.
“Don’t you forget, now,” said the boy, looking bashfully into the
bright eyes that danced with pleasure as the girl blushed and
smiled, and answered reproachfully; “Why, of course I shan’t!”