and Polly in the park; Maud being borne away by Katy; and all the school-girls turned into ridicule with an unsparing hand.

“Sly little puss, to make fun of us behind our backs,” said Fan, rather nettled by Polly’s quiet retaliation for many slights from herself and friends.

“She does draw well,” said Tom, looking critically at the sketch of a boy with a pleasant face, round whom Polly had drawn rays like the sun, and under which was written, “My dear Jimmy”.

“You wouldn’t admire her, if you knew what she wrote here about you,” said Fanny, whose eyes had strayed to the written page opposite, and lingered there long enough to read something that excited her curiosity.

“What is it?” asked Tom, forgetting his honourable resolves for a minute.

“She says, ‘I try to like Tom, and when he is pleasant we do very well; but he don’t stay so long. He gets cross and rough, and disrespectful to his father and mother, and plagues us girls, and is so horrid I almost hate him. It’s very wrong, but I can’t help it.’ How do you like that?” asked Fanny.

“Go ahead, and see how she comes down on you, ma’am,” retorted Tom, who had read on a bit.

“Does she?” And Fanny continued rapidly. “As for Fan, I don’t think we can be friends any more; for she told her father a lie, and won’t forgive me for not doing so too. I used to think her a very fine girl; but I don’t now. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I should love her just the same; but she isn’t kind to me; and though she is always talking about politeness, I don’t think it is polite to treat company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare say I am; but I shouldn’t laugh at a girl’s clothes because she was poor, or keep her out of the way because she didn’t do just as other girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can’t feel as I did; and I’d go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and I do love them dearly.”

“I say, Fan, you’ve got it now. Shut the book and come away,” cried Tom, enjoying this broadside immensely, but feeling guilty, as well he might.

“Just one bit more,” whispered Fanny, turning on a page or two, and stopping at a leaf that was blurred here and there, as if tears had dropped on it.

“Sunday morning, early. Nobody is up to spoil my quiet time, and I must write my Journal, for I’ve been so bad lately, I couldn’t bear to do it. I’m glad my visit is most done, for things worry me here, and there isn’t anyone to help me get right when I get wrong. I used to envy Fanny; but I don’t now, for her father and mother don’t take care of her as mine do of me. She is afraid of her father, and makes her mother do as she likes. I’m glad I came though, for I see money don’t give people everything; but I’d like a little all the same, for it is so comfortable to buy nice things. I read over my journal just now, and I’m afraid it’s not a good one; for I have said all sorts of things about the people here, and it isn’t kind. I should tear it out, only I promised to keep my diary, and I want to talk over things that puzzle me with mother. I see now that it is my fault a good deal; for I haven’t been half as patient and pleasant as I ought to be. I will truly try for the rest of the time, and be as good and grateful as I can; for I want them to like me, though I’m only ‘an old-fashioned country girl’.”

That last sentence made Fanny shut the book, with a face full of self-reproach; for she had said those words herself, in a fit of petulance, and Polly had made no answer, though her eyes filled and her cheeks burned. Fan opened her lips to say something; but not a sound followed, for there stood Polly looking at them with an expression they had never seen before.

“What are you doing with my things?” she demanded, in a low tone, while her eyes kindled and her colour changed.