Tom paused as Polly spoke, evidently ashamed of himself; but his temper was up, and he wouldn’t give in. If Polly had cried a little just here, he would have yielded; unfortunately she giggled, for Tom’s fierce attitude was such a funny contrast to his dress that she couldn’t help it. That settled the matter. No girl that ever lived should giggle at him, much less lock him up like a small child. Without a word, he made a grab at Polly’s arm, for the hand holding the key was still in her pocket. With her other hand she clutched her frock, and for a minute held on stoutly. But Tom’s strong fingers were irresistible; rip went the pocket, out came the hand, and with a cry of pain from Polly, the key fell on the floor.

“It’s your own fault if you’re hurt. I didn’t mean to,” muttered Tom, as he hastily departed, leaving Polly to sob over her sprained wrist. He went down, but not into the parlour, for somehow the joke seemed to have lost its relish; so he made the girls in the kitchen laugh, and then crept up the back way, hoping to make it all right with Polly. But she had gone to grandma’s room, for, though the old lady was out, it seemed a refuge. He had just time to get things in order, when Fanny came up, crosser than ever; for Trix had been telling her of all sorts of fun in which she might have had a share, if Polly had held her tongue.

“Where is she?” asked Fan, wishing to vent her vexation on her friend.

“Moping in her room, I suppose,” replied Tom, who was discovered reading studiously.

Now while this had been happening, Maud had been getting into hot water also; for when her maid left her, to see a friend below, Miss Maud paraded into Polly’s room, and solaced herself with mischief. In an evil hour Polly had let her play boat in her big trunk, which stood empty. Since then, Polly had stored some of her most private treasures in the upper tray, so that she might feel sure they were safe from all eyes. She had forgotten to lock the trunk, and when Maud raised the lid to begin her voyage, several objects of interest met her eyes. She was deep in her researches when Fan came in and looked over her shoulder, feeling too cross with Polly to chide Maud.

As Polly had no money for presents, she had exerted her ingenuity to devise all sorts of gifts, hoping by quantity to atone for any shortcomings in quality. Some of her attempts were successful, others were failures; but she kept them all, fine or funny, knowing the children at home would enjoy anything new. Some of Maud’s cast-off toys had been neatly mended for Kitty; some of Fan’s old ribbons and laces were converted into dolls’ finery; and Tom’s little figures, whittled out of wood in idle minutes, were laid away to show Will what could be done with a knife.

“What rubbish!” said Fanny.

“Queer girl, isn’t she?” added Tom, who had followed to see what was going on.

“Don’t you laugh at Polly’s things. She makes nicer dolls than you, Fan; and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom,” cried Maud.

“How do you know? I never saw her draw,” said Tom.

“Here’s a book with lots of pictures in it. I can’t wead the witing; but the pictures are so funny.”

Eager to display her friend’s accomplishments, Maud pulled out a fat little book, marked “Polly’s Journal” and spread it in her lap.

“Only the pictures; no harm in taking a look at ’em,” said Tom.

“Just one peep,” answered Fanny; and the next minute, both were laughing at a droll sketch of Tom in the gutter, with the big dog howling over him, and the velocipede running away. Very rough and faulty, but so funny, that it was evident Polly’s sense of humour was strong. A few pages further back, came Fanny and Mr. Frank, caricatured; then grandma, carefully done; Tom reciting his battle-piece; Mr. Shaw