An Old-Fashioned Girl. Louisa May Alcott

was glad to hear that Fan was crying. It would do her good; but she couldn’t help softening to Tom, who did seem in a predicament between two weeping damsels. A little smile began to dimple the cheek that wasn’t hidden, and then a hand came slowly out from under the curly head, and was stretched toward him silently. Tom was just going to give it a hearty shake, when he saw a red mark on the wrist, and knew what made it. His face changed, and he took the chubby hand so gently, that Polly peeped to see what it meant.

      “Will you forgive that, too?” he asked, in a whisper, stroking the red wrist.

      “Yes, it don’t hurt much now.” And Polly drew her hand away, sorry he had seen it.

      “I was a beast, that’s what I was!” said Tom, in a tone of great disgust. And just at that awkward minute down tumbled his father’s old beaver over his head and face, putting a comical quencher on his self-reproaches. Of course, neither could help laughing at that; and when he emerged, Polly was sitting up, looking as much better for her shower as he did for his momentary eclipse.

      “Fan feels dreadfully. Will you kiss and be friends, if I trot her down?” asked Tom, remembering his fellow-sinner.

      “I’ll go to her.” And Polly whisked out of the closet as suddenly as she had whisked in, leaving Tom sitting on the boot-jack, with a radiant countenance.

      How the girls made it up no one ever knew. But after much talking and crying, kissing and laughing, the breach was healed, and peace declared. A slight haze still lingered in the air after the storm, for Fanny was very humble and tender that evening; Tom a trifle pensive, but distressingly polite, and Polly magnanimously friendly to every one; for generous natures like to forgive, and Polly enjoyed the petting after the insult, like a very human girl.

      As she was brushing her hair at bedtime there came a tap on her door and, opening it, she beheld nothing but a tall black bottle, with a strip of red flannel tied round it like a cravat, and a cocked-hat note on the cork. Inside were these lines, written in a sprawling hand with very black ink:

      DEAR POLLY,—Opydilldock is first-rate for sprains. You put a lot on the flannel and do up your wrist, and I guess it will be all right in the morning. Will you come a sleigh-ride tomorrow? I’m awful sorry I hurt you.

      TOM.