An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa M. Alcott

on trying, till he was better even than Polly, whom Tom privately

considered a model of virtue, as girls go.

“I just wish I had a sister like you,” he broke out, all of a sudden.

“And I just wish I had a brother like Jim,” cried Fanny, for she felt

the reproach in Tom’s words, and knew she deserved it.

“I should n’t think you ‘d envy anybody, for you ‘ve got one

another,” said Polly, with such a wistful look, that it suddenly set

Tom and Fanny to wondering why they did n’t have better times

together, and enjoy themselves, as Polly and Jim did.

“Fan don’t care for anybody but herself,” said Tom.

“Tom is such a bear,” retorted Fanny.

“I would n’t say such things, for if anything should happen to either

of you, the other one would feel so sorry. Every cross word I ever

said to Jimmy comes back now, and makes me wish I had n’t.”

Two great tears rolled down Polly’s cheeks, and were quietly

wiped away; but I think they watered that sweet sentiment, called

fraternal love, which till now had been neglected in the hearts of

this brother and sister. They did n’t say anything then, or make any

plans, or confess any faults; but when they parted for the night,

Fanny gave the wounded head a gentle pat (Tom never would have

forgiven her if she had kissed him), and said, in a whisper, “I hope

you ‘ll have a good sleep, Tommy, dear.”

And Tom nodded back at her, with a hearty “Same to you, Fan.”

That was all; but it meant a good deal, for the voices were kind,

and the eyes met full of that affection which makes words of little

consequence. Polly saw it; and though she did n’t know that she

had made the sunshine, it shone back upon her so pleasantly, that

she fell happily asleep, though her Jimmy was n’t there to say

“good-night.”

CHAPTER V SCRAPES

AFTER being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round

and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after

Tom’s mishap, the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that

grandma said she was afraid “something was going to happen to

them.” The dear old lady need n’t have felt anxious, for such

excessive virtue does n’t last long enough to lead to translation,

except with little prigs in the goody story-books; and no sooner

was Tom on his legs again, when the whole party went astray, and

much tribulation was the consequence.

It all began with “Polly’s stupidity,” as Fan said afterward. Just as

Polly ran down to meet Mr. Shaw one evening, and was helping

him off with his coat, the bell rang, and a fine bouquet of hothouse

flowers was left in Polly’s hands, for she never could learn city

ways, and opened the door herself.

“Hey! what’s this? My little Polly is beginning early, after all,” said

Mr. Shaw, laughing, as he watched the girl’s face dimple and flush,

as she smelt the lovely nosegay, and glanced at a note half hidden

in the heliotrope.

Now, if Polly had n’t been “stupid,” as Fan said, she would have

had her wits about her, and let it pass; but, you see, Polly was an

honest little soul and it never occurred to her that there was any

need of concealment, so she answered in her straightforward way,

“Oh, they ain’t for me, sir; they are for Fan; from Mr. Frank, I

guess. She ‘ll be so pleased.”

“That puppy sends her things of this sort, does he?” And Mr. Shaw

looked far from pleased as he pulled out the note, and coolly

opened it.

Polly had her doubts about Fan’s approval of that “sort of thing,”

but dared not say a word, and stood thinking how she used to show

her father the funny valentines the boys sent her, and how they

laughed over them together. But Mr. Shaw did not laugh when he

had read the sentimental verses accompanying the bouquet, and his

face quite scared Polly, as he asked, angrily, “How long has this

nonsense been going on?”

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