"

"Go it, Polly!" called Tom, who was gracefully hanging head downward
from the bar put up for his special benefit.

"Polly 's mad! Polly 's mad!" sung Maud, skipping rope round the room.

"If Mr. Sydney could see you now he would n't think you such an angel
any more," added Fanny, tossing a bean-bag and her head at the same
time.

Polly was mad, her face was very red, her eyes very bright and her lips
twitched, but she held her tongue and began to swing as hard as she
could, fearing to say something she would be sorry for afterward. For a
few minutes no one spoke, Tom whistled and Maud hummed but Fan and Polly
were each soberly thinking of something, for they had reached an
age when children, girls especially, begin to observe, contrast, and
speculate upon the words, acts, manners, and looks of those about them.
A good deal of thinking goes on in the heads of these shrewd little
folks, and the elders should mind their ways, for they get criticised
pretty sharply and imitated very closely.

Two little things had happened that day, and the influence of a few
words, a careless action, was still working in the active minds of the
girls.

Mr. Sydney had called, and while Fanny was talking with him she saw his
eye rest on Polly, who sat apart watching the faces round her with the
modest, intelligent look which many found so attractive. At that minute
Madam Shaw came in, and stopped to speak to the little girl. Polly rose
at once, and remained standing till the old lady passed on.

"Are you laughing at Polly's prim ways?" Fanny had asked, as she saw Mr.
Sydney smile.

"No, I am admiring Miss Polly's fine manners," he answered in a grave,
respectful tone, which had impressed Fanny very much, for Mr. Sydney
was considered by all the girls as a model of good breeding, and that
indescribable something which they called "elegance."

Fanny wished she had done that little thing, and won that approving
look, for she valued the young man's good opinion, because it was
so hard to win, by her set at least. So, when Polly talked about old
people, it recalled this scene and made Fan cross.

Polly was remembering how, when Mrs. Shaw came home that day in her fine
visiting costume, and Maud ran to welcome her with unusual affection,
she gathered up her lustrous silk and pushed the little girl away
saying, impatiently, "Don't touch me, child, your hands are dirty."
Then the thought had come to Polly that the velvet cloak did n't