suit, merely waiting till “those girls” were out of sight, to give the
old lady a hearty hug, and a kiss on the very cheek Lafayette had
saluted.
When he reached the play-room Polly was sitting in the swing,
saying, very earnestly, “I always told you it was nice up in
grandma’s room, and now you see it is. I wish you ‘d go oftener;
she admires to have you, and likes to tell stories and do pleasant
things, only she thinks you don’t care for her quiet sort of fun. I do,
anyway, and I think she ‘s the kindest, best old lady that ever lived,
and I love her dearly!”
“I did n’t say she was n’t, only old people are sort of tedious and
fussy, so I keep out of their way,” said Fanny.
“Well, you ought not to, and you miss lots of pleasant times. My
mother says we ought to be kind and patient and respectful to all
old folks just because they are old, and I always mean to be.”
“Your mother ‘s everlastingly preaching,” muttered Fan, nettled by
the consciousness of her own shortcomings with regard to
grandma.
“She don’t preach!” cried Polly, firing up like a flash; “she only
explains things to us, and helps us be good, and never scolds, and I
‘d rather have her than any other mother in the world, though she
don’t wear velvet cloaks and splendid bonnets, so now!”
“Go it, Polly!” called Tom, who was gracefully hanging head
downward from the bar put up for his special benefit.
“Polly ‘s mad! Polly ‘s mad!” sung Maud, skipping rope round the
room.
“If Mr. Sydney could see you now he would n’t think you such an
angel any more,” added Fanny, tossing a bean-bag and her head at
the same time.
Polly was mad, her face was very red, her eyes very bright and her
lips twitched, but she held her tongue and began to swing as hard
as she could, fearing to say something she would be sorry for
afterward. For a few minutes no one spoke, Tom whistled and
Maud hummed but Fan and Polly were each soberly thinking of
something, for they had reached an age when children, girls
especially, begin to observe, contrast, and speculate upon the
words, acts, manners, and looks of those about them. A good deal
of thinking goes on in the heads of these shrewd little folks, and
the elders should mind their ways, for they get criticised pretty
sharply and imitated very closely.
Two little things had happened that day, and the influence of a few
words, a careless action, was still working in the active minds of
the girls.
Mr. Sydney had called, and while Fanny was talking with him she
saw his eye rest on Polly, who sat apart watching the faces round
her with the modest, intelligent look which many found so
attractive. At that minute Madam Shaw came in, and stopped to
speak to the little girl. Polly rose at once, and remained standing
till the old lady passed on.
“Are you laughing at Polly’s prim ways?” Fanny had asked, as she
saw Mr. Sydney smile.
“No, I am admiring Miss Polly’s fine manners,” he answered in a
grave, respectful tone, which had impressed Fanny very much, for
Mr. Sydney was considered by all the girls as a model of good
breeding, and that indescribable something which they called
“elegance.”
Fanny wished she had done that little thing, and won that
approving look, for she valued the young man’s good opinion,
because it was so hard to win, by her set at least. So, when Polly
talked about old people, it recalled this scene and made Fan cross.
Polly was remembering how, when Mrs. Shaw came home that day
in her fine visiting costume, and Maud ran to welcome her with
unusual affection, she gathered up her lustrous silk and pushed the
little girl away saying, impatiently, “Don’t touch me, child, your
hands are dirty.” Then the thought had come to Polly that the
velvet cloak did n’t cover a right motherly heart, that the fretful
face under the nodding purple plumes was not a tender motherly