face, and that the hands in the delicate primrose gloves had put
away something very sweet and precious. She thought of another
woman, whose dress never was too fine for little wet cheeks to lie
against, or loving little arms to press; whose face, in spite of many
lines and the gray hairs above it, was never sour or unsympathetic
when children’s eyes turned towards it; and whose hands never
were too busy, too full or too nice to welcome and serve the little
sons and daughters who freely brought their small hopes and fears,
sins and sorrows, to her, who dealt out justice and mercy with such
wise love. “Ah, that ‘s a mother!” thought Polly, as the memory
came warm into her heart, making her feel very rich, and pity
Maud for being so poor.
This it was that caused such sudden indignation at Fanny’s dreadful
speech, and this it was that made quick-tempered Polly try to calm
her wrath before she used toward Fanny’s mother the disrespectful
tone she so resented toward her own. As the swing came down
after some dozen quick journeys to and fro, Polly seemed to have
found a smile somewhere up aloft, for she looked toward Fan,
saying pleasantly, as she paused a little in her airy exercise, “I ‘m
not mad now, shall I come and toss with you?”
“No, I ‘ll come and swing with you,” answered Fanny, quick to feel
the generous spirit of her friend.
“You are an angel, and I ‘ll never be so rude again,” she added, as
Polly’s arm came round her, and half the seat was gladly offered.
“No, I ain’t; but if I ever get at all like one, it will be ‘mother’s
preaching’ that did it,” said Polly, with a happy laugh.
“Good for you, Polly Peacemaker,” cried Tom, quoting his father,
and giving them a grand push as the most appropriate way of
expressing his approbation of the sentiment.
Nothing more was said; but from that day there slowly crept into
the family more respect for grandma, more forbearance with her
infirmities, more interest in her little stories, and many a pleasant
gossip did the dear old lady enjoy with the children as they
gathered round her fire, solitary so long.
CHAPTER VII GOOD-BY
“OH, dear! Must you really go home Saturday?” said Fan, some
days after what Tom called the “grand scrimmage.”
“I really must; for I only came to stay a month and here I ‘ve been
nearly six weeks,” answered Polly, feeling as if she had been
absent a year.
“Make it two months and stay over Christmas. Come, do, now,”
urged Tom, heartily.
“You are very kind; but I would n’t miss Christmas at home for
anything. Besides, mother says they can’t possibly do without me.”
“Neither can we. Can’t you tease your mother, and make up your
mind to stay?” began Fan.
“Polly never teases. She says it ‘s selfish; and I don’t do it now
much,” put in Maud, with a virtuous air.
“Don’t you bother Polly. She ‘d rather go, and I don’t wonder. Let ‘s
be just as jolly as we can while she stays, and finish up with your
party, Fan,” said Tom, in a tone that settled the matter.
Polly had expected to be very happy in getting ready for the party;
but when the time came, she was disappointed; for somehow that
naughty thing called envy took possession of her, and spoiled her
pleasure. Before she left home, she thought her new white muslin
dress, with its fresh blue ribbons, the most elegant and proper
costume she could have; but now, when she saw Fanny’s pink silk,
with a white tarlatan tunic, and innumerable puffings, bows, and
streamers, her own simple little toilet lost all its charms in her
eyes, and looked very babyish and old-fashioned.
Even Maud was much better dressed than herself, and looked very
splendid in her cherry-colored and white suit, with a sash so big
she could hardly carry it, and little white boots with red buttons.
They both had necklaces and bracelets, ear-rings and brooches; but
Polly had no ornament, except the plain locket on a bit of blue