First, the big dog, barking at intervals; then the good-natured Irishman, trundling “that devil of a whirligig”, as he disrespectfully called the idolized velocipede; then the wounded hero, supported by the faithful Polly; and Maud brought up the rear in tears, bearing Tom’s cap.

Unfortunately Mrs. Shaw was out driving with grandma, and Fanny was making calls; so that there was no one but Polly to stand by Tom, for the parlour-maid turned faint at the sight of blood, and the chamber- maid lost her wits in the flurry. It was a bad cut, and must be sewed up at once, the doctor said, as soon as he came. “Somebody must hold his head,” he added, as he threaded his queer little needle.

“I’ll keep still, but if anybody must hold me, let Polly. You are not afraid, are you?” asked Tom, with an imploring look, for he didn’t like the idea of being sewed a bit.

Polly was just going to shrink away, saying, “Oh, I can’t!” when she remembered that Tom once called her a coward. Here was a chance to prove that she wasn’t, besides, poor Tom had no one else to help him; so she came up to the sofa where he lay, and nodded reassuringly, as she put a soft little hand on either side of the damaged head.

“You are a trump, Polly,” whispered Tom. Then he set his teeth, clenched his hands, lay quite still, and bore it like a man. It was all over in a minute or two, and when he had had a glass of wine, and was nicely settled on his bed, he felt pretty comfortable, in spite of the pain in his head; and being ordered to keep quiet, he said, “Thank you ever so much, Polly,” and watched her with a grateful face as she crept away.

He had to keep the house for a week, and laid about looking very interesting with a great black patch on his forehead. Everyone petted him; for the doctor said that if the blow had been an inch nearer the temple, it would have been fatal, and the thought of losing him so suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at once. His father asked him how he was a dozen times a day; his mother talked continually of “that dear boy’s narrow escape”; and grandma cockered him up with every delicacy she could invent; and the girls waited on him like devoted slaves. This new treatment had an excellent effect; for when neglected Tom got over his first amazement at this change of base, he blossomed out delightfully, as sick people do sometimes, and surprised his family by being unexpectedly patient, grateful, and amiable. Nobody ever knew how much good it did him; for boys seldom have confidences of this sort except with their mothers, and Mrs. Shaw had never found the key to her son’s heart. But a little seed was sown then that took root, and though it grew very slowly, it came to something in the end. Perhaps Polly helped it a little. Evening was his hardest time, for want of exercise made him as restless and nervous as it was possible for a hearty lad to be on such a short notice. He couldn’t sleep, so the girls amused him;—Fanny played and read aloud; Polly sung, and told stories; and did the latter so well, that it got to be a regular thing for her to begin as soon as twilight came, and Tom was settled in his favourite place on grandma’s sofa.

“Fire away, Polly,” said the young Sultan, one evening, as his little Scheherazade sat down in her low chair, after stirring up the fire till the room was bright and cosy.

“I don’t feel like stories to-night, Tom. I’ve told all I know, and can’t make up any more,” answered Polly, leaning her head on her hand with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He watched her a minute, and then asked, curiously, “What were you thinking about, just now, when you sat staring at the fire, and getting soberer and soberer every minute?”

“I was thinking about Jimmy.”

“Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you would some time; but don’t, if you’d rather not,” said Tom, lowering his rough voice respectfully.