"I don't feel like stories to-night, Tom. I 've told all I know, and
can't make up any more," answered Polly, leaning her head on her hand
with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He watched her a
minute, and then asked, curiously, "What were you thinking about, just
now, when you sat staring at the fire, and getting soberer and soberer
every minute?

"I was thinking about Jimmy."

"Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you would some
time; but don't, if you 'd rather not," said Tom, lowering his rough
voice respectfully.

"I like to talk about him; but there is n'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, was n't he?"

"No, he was n'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 every one loved him."

"Did n't you ever squabble, as we do?"

"Yes, indeed, sometimes; but we could n't stay mad, 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 could n't help laughing
and being friends right away."

"Did he not 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 did n't know half how wise he was, because
he did n'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 was n'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 little pause.

"He got hurt coasting, last winter; but he never told which boy did
it, and he only lived a week. I helped take care of him; and he was so
patient, I used to wonder at him, for he was in dreadful pain all time.
He gave me his books, and h