think we can be friends any more; for she told her father a lie, and
won’t forgive me for not doing so too. I used to think her a very
fine girl; but I don’t now. If she would be as she was when I first
knew her, I should love her just the same; but she is n’t kind to me;
and though she is always talking about politeness, I don’t think it is
polite to treat company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and
countrified, and I dare say I am; but I should n’t laugh at a girl’s
clothes because she was poor, or keep her out of the way because
she did n’t do just as other girls do here. I see her make fun of me,
and I can’t feel as I did; and I ‘d go home, only it would seem
ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and I do love them dearly.”
“I say, Fan, you ‘ve got it now. Shut the book and come away,”
cried Tom, enjoying this broadside immensely, but feeling guilty,
as well he might.
“Just one bit more,” whispered Fanny, turning on a page or two,
and stopping at a leaf that was blurred here and there as if tears
had dropped on it.
“Sunday morning, early. Nobody is up to spoil my quiet time, and I
must. write my journal, for I ‘ve been so bad lately, I could n’t bear
to do it. I ‘m glad my visit is most done, for things worry me here,
and there is n’t any one to help me get right when I get wrong. I
used to envy Fanny; but I don’t now, for her father and mother
don’t take care of her as mine do of me. She is afraid of her father,
and makes her mother do as she likes. I ‘m glad I came though, for
I see money don’t give people everything; but I ‘d like a little all the
same, for it is so comfortable to buy nice things. I read over my
journal just now, and I ‘m afraid it ‘s not a good one; for I have said
all sorts of things about the people here, and it is n’t kind. I should
tear it out, only I promised to keep my diary, and I want to talk
over things that puzzle me with mother. I see now that it is my
fault a good deal; for I have n’t been half as patient, and pleasant as
I ought to be. I will truly try for the rest of the time, and be as good
and grateful as I can; for I want them to like me, though I ‘m only
‘an old-fashioned country girl.'”
That last sentence made Fanny shut the book, with a face full of
self-reproach; for she had said those words herself, in a fit of
petulance, and Polly had made no answer, though her eyes filled
and her cheeks burned. Fan opened her lips to say something, but
not a sound followed, for there stood Polly looking at them with an
expression they had never seen before.
“What are you doing with my things?” she demanded, in a low
tone, while her eyes kindled and her color changed.
“Maud showed us a book she found, and we were just looking at
the pictures,” began Fanny, dropping it as if it burnt her fingers.
“And reading my journal, and laughing at my presents, and then
putting the blame on Maud. It ‘s the meanest thing I ever saw; and I
‘ll never forgive you as long as I live!”
Polly said, this all in one indignant breath, and then as if afraid of
saying too much, ran out of the room with such a look of mingled
contempt, grief, and anger, that the three culprits stood dumb with
shame. Tom had n’t even a whistle at his command; Maud was so
scared at gentle Polly’s outbreak, that she sat as still as a mouse;
while Fanny, conscience stricken, laid back the poor little presents
with a respectful hand, for somehow the thought of Polly’s poverty
came over her as it never had done before; and these odds and