turned to Polly, said kindly but gravely, “Set this silly child of mine a good example, and do your best for her, won’t you?”

“Me? What can I do, sir?” asked Polly, looking ready, but quite ignorant how to begin.

“Make her as like yourself as possible, my dear; nothing would please me better. Now go, and let us hear no more of this folly.”

They went without a word, and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the affair; but poor Polly did, for Fan scolded her till Polly thought seriously of packing up and going home next day. I really haven’t the heart to relate the dreadful lectures she got, the snubs she suffered, or the cold shoulders turned upon her for several days after this. Polly’s heart was full, but she told no one, and bore her trouble silently, feeling her friend’s ingratitude and injustice deeply.

Tom found out what the matter was, and sided with Polly, which precedings led to scrape number two.

“Where’s Fan?” asked the young gentleman, strolling into his sister’s room, where Polly lay on the sofa, trying to forget her troubles in an interesting book.

“Down stairs, seeing company.”

“Why didn’t you go too?”

“I don’t like Trix, and I don’t know her fine New York friends.”

“Don’t want to, neither, why don’t you say?”

“Not polite.”

“Who cares? I say, Polly, come and have some fun.”

“I’d rather read.”

“That isn’t polite.”

Polly laughed, and turned a page. Tom whistled a minute then sighed deeply, and put his hand to his forehead, which the black plaster still adorned.

“Does you head ache?” asked Polly.

“Awfully.”

“Better lie down, then.”

“Can’t; I’m fidgety, and want to be ‘amoosed’, as Pug says.”

“Just wait till I finish my chapter, and then I’ll come,” said pitiful Polly.

“All right,” returned the perjured boy, who had discovered that a broken head was sometimes more useful than a whole one, and exulting in his base strategem, he roved about the room, till Fan’s bureau arrested him. It was covered with all sorts of finery, for she had dressed in a hurry, and left everything topsy- turvy. A well-conducted boy would have let things alone, or a moral brother would have put things to rights; being neither, Tom rummaged to his heart’s content, till Fan’s drawers looked as if someone had been making hay in them. He tried the effect of ear-rings, ribbons, and collars; wound up the watch, though it wasn’t time; burnt his inquisitive nose with smelling-salts; deluged his grimy handkerchief with Fan’s best cologne; anointed his curly crop with her hair-oil; powdered his face with her violet powder; and finished off by pinning on a bunch of false ringlets, which Fanny tried to keep a profound secret. The