“Of course they can’t! This is what poor Maud was troubled about. He had told your mother and Fan before you came, and that is why they are so unhappy, I suppose.”

“They are safe enough. Father hasn’t touched mother’s money; he ‘couldn’t rob his girls’, he said, and that’s all safe for ’em. Isn’t he a trump, Polly?” And Tom’s face shone with pride, even while his lips would twitch with a tenderer feeling.

“If I could only do anything to help,” cried Polly, oppressed with her own powerlessness.

“You can. Go and be good to him; you know how; he needs it enough, all alone there. I can’t do it, for I’m only a curse instead of a comfort to him.”

“How did he take your news?” asked Polly, who for a time had forgotten the lesser trouble in the greater.

“Like a lamb; for when I’d done, he only said, ‘My poor lad, we must bear with one another,’ and then told his story.”

“I’m glad he was kind,” began Polly, in a soothing tone; but Tom cried out, remorsefully,—

“That’s what knocks me over! Just when I ought to be a pride and a prop to him, I bring him my debts and disgrace, and he never says a word of blame. It’s no use, I can’t stand it!” and Tom’s head went down again with something very like a sob, that would come in spite of manful efforts to keep it back, for the poor fellow had the warmest heart that ever was, and all the fine waistcoats outside couldn’t spoil it.

That sound gave Polly more pain than the news of a dozen failures and expulsions, and it was as impossible for her to resist putting her hand tenderly on the bent head, as it was for her to help noticing with pleasure how brown the little curls were growing, and how soft they were. In spite of her sorrow, she enjoyed that minute very much, for she was a born consoler, and, it is hardly necessary for me to add, loved this reprehensible Tom with all her heart. It was a very foolish thing for her to do, she quite agreed to that; she couldn’t understand it, explain it, or help it; she only felt that she did care for him very much, in spite of his faults, his indifference, and his engagement. You see she learned to love him one summer, when he made them a visit. That was before Trix caught him; and when she heard that piece of news, Polly couldn’t unlove him all at once, though she tried very hard, as was her duty. That engagement was such a farce, that she never had much faith in it, so she put her love away in a corner of her heart, and tried to forget it, hoping it would either die or have a right to live. It didn’t make her very miserable, because patience, work, and common sense lent her a hand, and hope would keep popping up its bright face from the bottom of her Pandora-box of troubles. Now and then, when anyone said Trix wouldn’t jilt Tom or that Tom did care for Trix more than he should, Polly had a pang, and thought she couldn’t possibly bear it. But she always found she could, and so came to the conclusion that it was a merciful provision of nature that girls’ hearts could stand so much, and their appetites continue good when unrequited love was starving.

Now she could not help yearning over this faulty, well-beloved scapegrace Tom, or help thinking, with a little thrill of hope, “If Trix only cared for his money, she may cast him off now he’s lost it; but I’ll love him all the better because he’s poor.” With this feeling warm at her heart, I don’t wonder that Polly’s hand had a soothing effect, and that after a heave or two, Tom’s shoulders were quiet, and certain smothered sniffs suggested that he would be all right again if he could only wipe his eyes without anyone’s seeing him do it.

Polly seemed to divine his wish, and tucking a little, clean handkerchief into one of his half-open hands, she said, “I’m going to your father now,” and with a farewell smooth, so comforting that Tom wished she’d do it again, she went away.

As she paused a minute in the hall to steady herself, Maud called her from above, and thinking that the women might need her more than the men, she ran up to find Fanny waiting for her in her own room.