“I like to talk about him; but there isn’t much to tell,” began Polly, grateful for his interest. “Sitting here with you reminded me of the way I used to sit with him when he was sick. We used to have such happy times, and it’s so pleasant to think about them now.”
“He was awfully good, wasn’t he?”
“No, he wasn’t; but he tried to be, and mother says that is half the battle. We used to get tired of trying; but we kept making resolutions, and working hard to keep ’em. I don’t think I got on much; but Jimmy did, and everyone loved him.”
“Didn’t you ever squabble, as we do?”
“Yes, indeed, sometimes; but we couldn’t stay angry, and always made it up again, as soon as we could. Jimmy used to come round first, and say, ‘All serene, Polly’, so kind and jolly, that I couldn’t help laughing and being friends right away.”
“Did he know a lot?”
“Yes, I think he did, for he liked to study, and wanted to get on, so he could help father. People used to call him a fine boy, and I felt so proud to hear it; but they didn’t know half how wise he was, because he didn’t show off a bit. I suppose sisters always are grand of their brothers; but I don’t believe many girls had as much right to be as I had.”
“Most girls don’t care two pins about their brothers; so that shows you don’t know much about it.”
“Well, they ought to, if they don’t; and they would if the boys were as kind to them as Jimmy was to me.”
“Why, what did he do?”
“Loved me dearly, and wasn’t ashamed to show it,” cried Polly, with a sob in her voice that made her answer very eloquent.
“What made him die, Polly?” asked Tom, soberly, after a little pause.
“He got hurt coasting, last winter; but he never told which boy did it, and he only lived a week. I helped to take care of him; and he was so patient, I used to wonder at him, for he was in dreadful pain all the time. He gave me his books, and his dog, and his speckled hens, and his big knife, and said, ‘Good- bye, Polly’, and kissed me the last thing—and then—Oh Jimmy! Jimmy! If he only could come back!”
Poor Polly’s eyes had been getting fuller and fuller, her lips trembling more and more, as she went on; and when she came to that “good-bye”, she couldn’t get any further, but covered up her face, and cried as if her heart would break. Tom was full of sympathy, but didn’t know how to show it; so he sat shaking up the camphor bottle, and trying to think of something proper and comfortable to say, when Fanny came to the rescue, and cuddled Polly in her arms, with soothing little pats and whispers and kisses, till the tears stopped, and Polly said, she “didn’t mean to, and wouldn’t any more. I’ve been thinking about my dear boy all the evening, for Tom reminds me of him,” she added with a sigh.
“Me? How can I, when I am not a bit like him?” cried Tom, amazed.
“But you are in some ways.”
“Wish I was; but I can’t be, for he was good, you know.”
“So are you, when you choose. Hasn’t he been good and patient, and don’t we all like to pet him when he’s clever, Fan?” said Polly, whose heart was still aching for her brother, and ready for his sake to find virtues even in tormenting Tom.