him a bear, and was ashamed of him; but never tried to polish him
up a bit; and Maud and he lived together like a cat and dog who
did not belong to a “happy family.” Grandma was the only one who
stood by poor old Tom; and Polly more than once discovered him
doing something kind for Madam, and seeming very much
ashamed when it was found out. He was n’t respectful at all; he
called her “the old lady,” and told her he “would n’t be fussed
over”; but when anything was the matter, he always went to “the
old lady,” and was very grateful for the “fussing.” Polly liked him
for this, and often wanted to speak of it; but she had a feeling that
it would n’t do, for in praising their affection, she was reproaching
others with neglect; so she held her tongue, and thought about it all
the more. Grandma was rather neglected, too, and perhaps that is
the reason why Tom and she were such good friends. She was even
more old-fashioned than Polly; but people did n’t seem to mind it
so much in her, as her day was supposed to be over, and nothing
was expected of her but to keep out of everybody’s way, and to be
handsomely dressed when she appeared “before people.” Grandma
led a quiet, solitary life in her own rooms, full of old furniture,
pictures, books, and relics of a past for which no one cared but
herself. Her son went up every evening for a little call, was very
kind to her, and saw that she wanted nothing money could buy; but
he was a busy man, so intent on getting rich that he had no time to
enjoy what he already possessed. Madam never complained,
interfered, or suggested; but there was a sad sort of quietude about
her, a wistful look in her faded eyes, as if she wanted something
which money could not buy, and when children were near, she
hovered about them, evidently longing to cuddle and caress them
as only grandmothers can. Polly felt this; and as she missed the
home-petting, gladly showed that she liked to see the quiet old
face brighten, as she entered the solitary room, where few children
came, except the phantoms of little sons and daughters, who, to the
motherly heart that loved them, never faded or grew up. Polly
wished the children would be kinder to grandma; but it was not for
her to tell them so, although it troubled her a good deal, and she
could only try to make up for it by being as dutiful and affectionate
as if their grandma was her own.
Another thing that disturbed Polly was the want of exercise. To
dress up and parade certain streets for an hour every day, to stand
talking in doorways, or drive out in a fine carriage, was not the sort
of exercise she liked, and Fan would take no other. Indeed, she
was so shocked, when Polly, one day, proposed a run down the
mall, that her friend never dared suggest such a thing again. At
home, Polly ran and rode, coasted and skated, jumped rope and
raked hay, worked in her garden and rowed her boat; so no wonder
she longed for something more lively than a daily promenade with
a flock of giddy girls, who tilted along in high-heeled boots, and
costumes which made Polly ashamed to be seen with some of
them. So she used to slip out alone sometimes, when Fanny was
absorbed in novels, company, or millinery, and get fine brisk walks
round the park, on the unfashionable side, where the babies took
their airings; or she went inside, to watch the boys coasting, and to
wish she could coast too, as she did at home. She never went far,
and always came back rosy and gay.
One afternoon, just before dinner, she felt so tired of doing
nothing, that she slipped out for a run. It had been a dull day; but
the sun was visible now, setting brightly below the clouds. It was
cold but still and Polly trotted down the smooth, snow-covered
mall humming to herself, and trying not to feel homesick. The