rlor, for somehow the joke seemed to
have lost its relish; so he made the girls in the kitchen laugh, and
then crept up the back way, hoping to make it all right with Polly. But
she had gone to grandma's room, for, though the old lady was out, it
seemed a refuge. He had just time to get things in order, when Fanny
came up, crosser than ever; for Trix had been telling her of all sorts
of fun in which she might have had a share, if Polly had held her
tongue.

"Where is she?" asked Fan, wishing to vent her vexation on her friend.

"Moping in her room, I suppose," replied Tom, who was discovered reading
studiously.

Now, while this had been happening, Maud had been getting into hot
water also; for when her maid left her, to see a friend below, Miss Maud
paraded into Polly's room, and solaced herself with mischief. In an evil
hour Polly had let her play boat in her big trunk, which stood empty.
Since then Polly had stored some of her most private treasures in the
upper tray, so that she might feel sure they were safe from all eyes.
She had forgotten to lock the trunk, and when Maud raised the lid to
begin her voyage, several objects of interest met her eyes. She was deep
in her researches when Fan came in and looked over her shoulder, feeling
too cross with Polly to chide Maud.

As Polly had no money for presents, she had exerted her ingenuity
to devise all sorts of gifts, hoping by quantity to atone for any
shortcomings in quality. Some of her attempts were successful, others
were failures; but she kept them all, fine or funny, knowing the
children at home would enjoy anything new. Some of Maud's cast-off toys
had been neatly mended for Kitty; some of Fan's old ribbons and laces
were converted into dolls' finery; and Tom's little figures, whittled
out of wood in idle minutes, were laid away to show Will what could be
done with a knife.

"What rubbish!" said Fanny.

"Queer girl, is n't she?" added Tom, who had followed to see what was
going on.

"Don't you laugh at Polly's things. She makes nicer dolls than you, Fan;
and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom," cried Maud.
"How do you know? I never saw her draw," said Tom.

"Here 's a book with lots of pictures in it. I can't wead the witing;
but the pictures are so funny."

Eager to display her friend's accomplishments, Maud pulled out a fat
little book, marked "Polly's Journal," and spread it in her lap.

"Only the pictures; no harm in taking a loo