An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa M. Alcott

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

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