“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 feminine affliction, the heartache.

“There, I feel better. I’ve been needing a good cry for some time, and now I shall be all right. Never mind it, Polly, I’m nervous and tried; I’ve danced too much lately, and dyspepsia makes me blue;” and Fanny wiped her eyes and laughed.

“Of course it does; you need rest and petting, and here I’ve been scolding you, when I ought to have been extra kind. Now tell me what I can do for you,” said Polly, with a remorseful face.

“Talk to me, and tell me all about yourself. You don’t seem to have as many worries as other people. What’s the secret, Polly?” and Fan looked up with wet eyes, and a wistful face at Polly, who was putting little dabs of cologne all over her head.

“Well,” said Polly, slowly, “I just try to look on the bright side of things; that helps one amazingly. Why, you’ve no idea how much goodness and sunshine you can get out of the most uncompromising things, if you make the best of them.”

“I don’t know how,” said Fan, despondently.

“You can learn; I did. I used to croak and fret dreadfully, and get so unhappy, I wasn’t fit for anything. I do it still, more than I ought, but I try not to, and it gets easier, I find. Get atop of your troubles, and then they are half-cured, Miss Mills says.”

“Everything is so contrary and provoking,” said Fanny, petulantly.

“Now what in the world have you to fret about?” asked Polly, rather anxiously.

“Quantities of things,” began Fan, and then stopped, for somehow she felt ashamed to own that she was afflicted because she couldn’t have a new set of furs, go to Paris in the spring, and make Mr. Sydney love her. She hunted up something more presentable, and said in a despairing tone,—

“Well, mother is very poorly, Tom and Trix quarrel all the time, Maud gets more and more wilful every day, and papa is worried about his affairs.”

“A sad state of things, but nothing very desperate. Can’t you lend a hand anywhere? That might do good all round.”

“No; I haven’t the talent for managing people, but I see what ought to be done.”

“Well, don’t wail about it; keep yourself happy, if you can; it will help other people, to see you cheerful.”

“Just what Tom said, ‘Keep jolly’; but, dear me, how can one, when everything is so stupid and tiresome?”