don’t come and report, and I got anxious about you,” said Fanny,
looking into the clear eyes before her.
“I ‘ve been so busy; and I knew you would n’t care to hear about my
doings, for they are n’t the sort you like,” answered Polly.
“Your lessons did n’t use to take up all your time. It ‘s my private
opinion that you are taking as well as giving lessons, miss,” said
Fan, putting on a playfully stern air, to hide her real anxiety.
“Yes, I am,” answered Polly, soberly.
“In what? Love?”
A quick color came to Polly’s cheeks, as she laughed, and said,
looking away, “No; friendship and good works.”
“Oh, indeed! May I ask who is your teacher?”
“I ‘ve more than one; but Miss Mills is head teacher.”
“She instructs in good works; who gives the friendship lessons?”
“Such pleasant girls! I wish you knew them, Fan. So clever, and
energetic, and kind, and happy, it always does me good to see
them,” cried Polly, with a face full of enthusiasm.
“Is that all?” And Fan gave her a curious look of mingled
disappointment and relief.
“There, I told you my doings would not interest you, and they
don’t; they sound flat and prosy after your brilliant adventures. Let
‘s change the subject,” said Polly, looking relieved herself.
“Dear me, which of our sweethearts sends us dainty bouquets of
violets so early in the morning?” asked Fanny, suddenly spying the
purple cluster in a graceful little vase on the piano.
“He sends me one every week; he knows I love them so,” and
Polly’s eyes turned that way full of pride and pleasure.
“I ‘d no idea he was so devoted,” said Fanny, stooping to smell the
flowers, and at the same time read a card that lay near them.
“You need n’t plague me about it, now you know it. I never speak
of our fondness for one another, because such things seem silly to
other people. Will is n’t all that Jimmy was to me; but he tries to
be, and I love him dearly for it.”
“Will?” Fanny’s voice quite startled Polly, it was so sharp and
sudden, and her face grew red and pale all in a minute, as she
upset the little vase with the start she gave.
“Yes, of course; who did you think I meant?” asked Polly, sopping
up the water before it damaged her piano.
“Never mind; I thought you might be having a quiet little flirtation
with somebody. I feel responsible, you know, because I told your
mother I ‘d look after you. The flowers are all right. My head aches
so, I hardly know what I ‘m doing this morning.”
Fanny spoke fast, and laughed uncomfortably, as she went back to
the sofa, wondering if Polly had told her a lie. Polly seemed to
guess at her thoughts as she saw the card, and turning toward her,
she held it up, saying, with a conscious look in her eyes, “You
thought Mr. Sydney sent them? Well, you are mistaken, and the
next time you want to know anything, please ask straight out. I like
it better than talking at cross purposes.”
“Now, my dear, don’t be angry; I was only teasing you in fun. Tom
took it into his foolish head that something was going on, and I felt
a natural interest, you know.”
“Tom! What does he know or care about my affairs?” demanded
Polly.
“He met you two in the street pretty often, and being in a
sentimental mood himself, got up a romance for you and Sydney.”
“I ‘m much obliged to him for his interest, but it ‘s quite wasted,
thank you.”
Fan’s next proceeding gave her friend another surprise, for, being
rather ashamed of herself, very much relieved, and quite at a loss
what to say, she took refuge in an hysterical fit of tears, which
changed Polly’s anger into tenderness at once.
“Is that the trouble she has been hiding all winter? Poor dear, I
wish I ‘d known it sooner,” thought Polly, as she tried to soothe her
with comfortable pats, sniffs of cologne and sympathizing remarks
upon the subject of headache, carefully ignoring that other