she wanted to ever so much. She 's sorry,
I know, and won't forget what you say any more, if you 'll forgive her
this once," cried Polly, very earnestly, when the foolish little story
was told.

"I don't see how I can help it, when you plead so well for her. Come
here, Fan, and mind this one thing; drop all this nonsense, and attend
to your books, or off you go; and Canada is no joke in winter time, let
me tell you."

As he spoke, Mr. Shaw stroked his sulky daughter's cheek, hoping to see
some sign of regret; but Fanny felt injured, and would n't show that
she was sorry, so she only said, pettishly, "I suppose I can have my
flowers, now the fuss is over."

"They are going straight back where they came from, with a line from me,
which will keep that puppy from ever sending you any more." Ringing
the bell, Mr. Shaw despatched the unfortunate posy, and then turned to
Polly, saying, kindly but gravely, "Set this silly child of mine a good
example and do your best for her, won't you?"

"Me? What can I do, sir?" asked Polly, looking ready, but quite ignorant
how to begin.

"Make her as like yourself as possible, my dear; nothing would please me
better. Now go, and let us hear no more of this folly."

They went without a word, and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the affair; but
poor Polly did, for Fan scolded her, till Polly thought seriously of
packing up and going home next day. I really have n't the heart to
relate the dreadful lectures she got, the snubs she suffered, or the
cold shoulders turned upon her for several days after this. Polly's
heart was full, but she told no one, and bore her trouble silently,
feeling her friend's ingratitude and injustice deeply.

Tom found out what the matter was, and sided with Polly, which
proceeding led to scrape number two.

"Where 's Fan?" asked the young gentleman, strolling into his sister's
room, where Polly lay on the sofa, trying to forget her troubles in an
interesting book.

"Down stairs, seeing company."

"Why did n't you go, too?"

"I don't like Trix, and I don't know her fine New York friends."

"Don't want to, neither, why don't you say?"

"Not polite."

"Who cares? I say, Polly, come and have some fun."

"I 'd rather read."

"That is n't polite."

Polly laughed, and turned a page. Tom whistled a minute, then sighed
deeply, and put his hand to his forehead, which the black plaster still
adorned.

"Does your head ache?" asked Polly.

"Awfully."

"Bette