An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa M. Alcott

out from under the curly head, and was stretched toward him

silently. Tom was just going to give it a hearty shake, when he saw

a red mark on the wrist, and knew what made it. His face changed,

and he took the chubby hand so gently, that Polly peeped to see

what it meant.

“Will you forgive that, too?” he asked, in a whisper, stroking the

red wrist.

“Yes, it don’t hurt much now.” And Polly drew her hand away,

sorry he had seen it.

“I was a beast, that ‘s what I was!” said Tom, in a tone of great

disgust. And just at that awkward minute down tumbled his

father’s old beaver over his head and face, putting a comical

quencher on his self-reproaches. Of course, neither could help

laughing at that; and when he emerged, Polly was sitting up,

looking as much better for her shower as he did for his momentary

eclipse.

“Fan feels dreadfully. Will you kiss and be friends, if I trot her

down?” asked Tom, remembering his fellow-sinner.

“I ‘ll go to her.” And Polly whisked out of the closet as suddenly as

she had whisked in, leaving Tom sitting on the boot-jack, with a

radiant countenance.

How the girls made it up no one ever knew. But after much talking

and crying, kissing and laughing, the breach was healed, and peace

declared. A slight haze still lingered in the air after the storm, for

Fanny was very humble and tender that evening; Tom a trifle

pensive, but distressingly polite, and Polly magnanimously friendly

to every one; for generous natures like to forgive, and Polly

enjoyed the petting after the insult, like a very human girl.

As she was brushing her hair at bedtime there came a tap on her

door and, opening it, she beheld nothing but a tall black bottle,

with a strip of red flannel tied round it like a cravat, and a

cocked-hat note on the cork. Inside were these lines, written in a

sprawling hand with very black ink:

DEAR POLLY, Opydilldock is first-rate for sprains. You put a lot

on the flannel and do up your wrist, and I guess it will be all right

in the morning. Will you come a sleigh-ride tomorrow? I ‘m awful

sorry I hurt you.

TOM

CHAPTER VI GRANDMA

WHERE ‘S Polly?” asked Fan one snowy afternoon, as she came

into the dining-room where Tom was reposing on the sofa with his

boots in the air, absorbed in one of those delightful books in which

boys are cast away on desert islands, where every known fruit,

vegetable and flower is in its prime all the year round; or, lost in

boundless forests, where the young heroes have thrilling

adventures, kill impossible beasts, and, when the author’s

invention gives out, suddenly find their way home, laden with tiger

skins, tame buffaloes and other pleasing trophies of their prowess.

“Dun no,” was Tom’s brief reply, for he was just escaping from an

alligator of the largest size.

“Do put down that stupid book, and let ‘s do something,” said

Fanny, after a listless stroll round the room.

“Hi, they ‘ve got him!” was the only answer vouchsafed by the

absorbed reader.

“Where ‘s Polly?” asked Maud, joining the party with her hands

full of paper dolls all suffering for ball-dresses.

“Do get along, and don’t bother me,” cried Tom exasperated at the

interruption.

“Then tell us where she is. I ‘m sure you know, for she was down

here a little while ago,” said Fanny.

“Up in grandma’s room, maybe.”

“Provoking thing! you knew it all the time, and did n’t tell, just to

plague us,” scolded Maud.

But Tom was now under water stabbing his alligator, and took no

notice of the indignant departure of the young ladies.

“Polly ‘s always poking up in grandma’s room. I don’t see what fun

there is in it,” said Fanny as they went up stairs.

“Polly ‘s a verwy queer girl, and gwandma pets her a gweat deal

more than she does me,” observed Maud, with an injured air.

“Let ‘s peek and see what they are doing,” whispered Fan, pausing

at the half-open door.