he came. “Somebody must hold his head;” he added, as he
threaded his queer little needle.
“I ‘ll keep still, but if anybody must hold me, let Polly. You ain’t
afraid, are you?” asked Tom, with imploring look, for he did n’t
like the idea of being sewed a bit.
Polly was just going to shrink away, saying, “Oh I can’t!” when she
remembered that Tom once called her a coward. Here was a
chance to prove that she was n’t; besides, poor Tom had no one
else to help him; so she came up to the sofa where he lay, and
nodded reassuringly, as she put a soft little hand on either side of
the damaged head.
“You are a trump, Polly,” whispered Tom. Then he set his teeth,
clenched his hands, lay quite still, and bore it like a man. It was all
over in a minute or two, and when he had had a glass of wine, and
was nicely settled on his bed, he felt pretty comfortable, in spite of
the pain in his head; and being ordered to keep quiet, he said,
“Thank you ever so much, Polly,” and watched her with a grateful
face as she crept away.
He had to keep the house for a week, and laid about looking very
interesting with a great black patch on his forehead. Every one
‘petted him;’ for the doctor said, that if the blow had been an inch
nearer the temple, it would have been fatal, and the thought of
losing him so suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at
once. His father asked him how he was a dozen times a day; his
mother talked continually of “that dear boy’s narrow escape”; and
grandma cockered him up with every delicacy she could invent;
and the girls waited on him like devoted slaves. This new
treatment had an excellent effect; for when neglected Tom got
over his first amazement at this change of base, he blossomed out
delightfully, as sick people do sometimes, and surprised his family
by being unexpectedly patient, grateful, and amiable. Nobody ever
knew how much good it did him; for boys seldom have
confidences of this sort except with their mothers, and Mrs. Shaw
had never found the key to her son’s heart. But a little seed was
sowed then that took root, and though it grew very slowly, it came
to something in the end. Perhaps Polly helped it a little. Evening
was his hardest time, for want of exercise made him as restless and
nervous as it was possible for a hearty lad to be on such a short
notice.
He could n’t sleep so the girls amused him; Fanny played and read
aloud; Polly sung, and told stories; and did the latter so well, that it
got to be a regular thing for her to begin as soon as twilight came,
and Tom was settled in his favorite place on grandma’s sofa.
“Fire away, Polly,” said the young sultan, one evening, as his little
Scheherazade sat down in her low chair, after stirring up the fire
till the room was bright and cosy.
“I don’t feel like stories to-night, Tom. I ‘ve told all I know, and
can’t make up any more,” answered Polly, leaning her head on her
hand with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He
watched her a minute, and then asked, curiously, “What were you
thinking about, just now, when you sat staring at the fire, and
getting soberer and soberer every minute?
“I was thinking about Jimmy.”
“Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you
would some time; but don’t, if you ‘d rather not,” said Tom,
lowering his rough voice respectfully.
“I like to talk about him; but there is n’t much to tell,” began Polly,
grateful for his interest. “Sitting here with you reminded me of the
way I used to sit with him when he was sick. We used to have such
happy times, and it ‘s so pleasant to think about them now.”
“He was awfully good, was n’t he?”
“No, he was n’t; but he tried to be, and mother says that is half the