An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa M. Alcott

ends, so carefully treasured up for those at home, touched Fanny,

and grew beautiful in her eyes. As she laid by the little book, the

confessions in it reproached her more sharply that any words Polly

could have spoken; for she had laughed at her friend, had slighted

her sometimes, and been unforgiving for an innocent offence. That

last page, where Polly took the blame on herself, and promised to

“truly try” to be more kind and patient, went to Fanny’s heart,

melting all the coldness away, and she could only lay her head on

the trunk, sobbing, “It was n’t Polly’s fault; it was all mine.”

Tom, still red with shame at being caught in such a scrape, left

Fanny to her tears, and went manfully away to find the injured

Polly, and confess his manifold transgressions. But Polly could n’t

be found. He searched high and low in every room, yet no sign of

the girt appeared, and Tom began to get anxious. “She can’t have

run away home, can she?” he said to himself, as he paused before

the hat-tree. There was the little round hat, and Tom gave it a

remorseful smooth, remembering how many times he had tweaked

it half off, or poked it over poor Polly’s eyes. “Maybe she ‘s gone

down to the office, to tell pa. ‘T is n’t a bit like her, though.

Anyway, I ‘ll take a look round the corner.”

Eager to get his boots, Tom pulled open the door of a dark closet

under the stairs, and nearly tumbled over backward with surprise;

for there, on the floor, with her head pillowed on a pair of rubbers,

lay Polly in an attitude of despair. This mournful spectacle sent

Tom’s penitent speech straight out of his head, and with an

astonished “Hullo!” he stood and stared in impressive silence.

Polly was n’t crying, and lay so still, that Tom began to think she

might be in a fit or a faint, and bent anxiously down to inspect the

pathetic bunch. A glimpse of wet eyelashes, a round cheek redder

than usual, and lips parted by quick, breathing, relieved his mind

upon that point; so, taking courage, he sat down on the boot-jack,

and begged pardon like a man.

Now, Polly was very angry, and I think she had a right to be; but

she was not resentful, and after the first flash was over, she soon

began to feel better about it. It was n’t easy to forgive; but, as she

listened to Tom’s honest voice, getting gruff with remorse now and

then, she could n’t harden her heart against him, or refuse to make

up when he so frankly owned that it “was confounded mean to read

her book that way.” She liked his coming and begging pardon at

once; it was a handsome thing to do; she appreciated it, and

forgave him in her heart some time before she did with her lips;

for, to tell the truth, Polly had a spice of girlish malice, and rather

liked to see domineering Tom eat humble-pie, just enough to do

him good, you know. She felt that atonement was proper, and

considered it no more than just that Fan should drench a

handkerchief or two with repentant tears, and that Tom should sit

on a very uncomfortable seat and call himself hard names for five

or ten minutes before she relented.

“Come, now, do say a word to a fellow. I ‘m getting the worst of it,

anyway; for there ‘s Fan, crying her eyes out upstairs, and here are

you stowed away in a dark closet as dumb as a fish, and nobody

but me to bring you both round. I ‘d have cut over to the Smythes

and got ma home to fix things, only it looked like backing out of

the scrape; so I did n’t,” said Tom, as a last appeal.

Polly was glad to hear that Fan was crying. It would do her good;

but she could n’t help softening to Tom, who did seem in a

predicament between two weeping damsels. A little smile began to

dimple the cheek that was n’t hidden, and then a hand came slowly

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