to win the confidence of the children, who had always found him
busy, indifferent, and absentminded.

As the girls were going to bed one night, Polly kissed grandma, as
usual, and Fanny laughed at her, saying, "What a baby you are! We are
too old for such things now."

"I don't think people ever are too old to kiss their fathers and
mothers," was the quick answer.

"Right, my little Polly;" and Mr. Shaw stretched out his hand to her
with such a kindly look, that Fanny stared surprised, and then said,
shyly, "I thought you did n't care about it, father." "I do, my dear:"
And Mr. Shaw put out the other hand to Fanny, who gave him a daughterly
kiss, quite forgetting everything but the tender feeling that sprung up
in her heart at the renewal of the childish custom which we never need
outgrow.

Mrs. Shaw was a nervous, fussy invalid, who wanted something every five
minutes; so Polly found plenty of small things to do for her and did,
them so cheerfully, that the poor lady loved to have the quiet, helpful
child near, to wait upon her, read to her, run errands, or hand the
seven different shawls which were continually being put on or off.

Grandma, too, was glad to find willing hands and feet to serve her; and
Polly passed many happy hours in the quaint rooms, learning all sorts
of pretty arts, and listening to pleasant chat, never dreaming how much
sunshine she brought to the solitary old lady.

Tom was Polly's rock ahead for a long time, because he was always
breaking out in a new place, and one never knew where to find him. He
tormented yet amused her; was kind one day, and a bear the next; at
times she fancied he was never going to be bad again, and the next thing
she knew he was deep in mischief, and hooted at the idea of repentance
and reformation. Polly gave him up as a hard case; but was so in the
habit of helping any one who seemed in trouble, that she was good to him
simply because she could n't help it.

"What 's the matter? Is your lesson too hard for you?" she asked one
evening, as a groan made her look across the table to where Tom sat
scowling over a pile of dilapidated books, with his hands in his hair,
as if his head was in danger of flying asunder with the tremendous
effort he was making.

"Hard! Guess it is. What in thunder do I care about the old
Carthaginians? Regulus was n't bad; but I 'm sick of him!" And Tom dealt
"Harkness's Latin Reader" a thump, which expressed his feelings better
than wo