“Let's!” was Tom's brief advice.
“Mercy me! what a fuss about nothing!” said Fanny, ready to cry with vexation.
“T is n't nothing. You know you are forbidden to go gallivanting round with those chaps, and that's the reason you're in a pucker now. I won't make any bargain, and I will tell,” returned Tom, seized with a sudden fit of moral firmness.
“Will you if I promise never, never to do so any more?” asked Fanny, meekly; for when Thomas took matters into his own hands, his sister usually submitted in spite of herself.
“I'll think about it; and if you behave, maybe I won't do it at all. I can watch you better than papa can; so, if you try it again, it's all up with you, miss,” said Tom, finding it impossible to resist the pleasure of tyrannizing a little when he got the chance.
“She won't; don't plague her any more, and she will be good to you when you get into scrapes,” answered Polly, with her arm round Fan.
“I never do; and if I did, I should n't ask a girl to help me out.”
“Why not? I'd ask you in a minute, if I was in trouble,” said Polly, in her confiding way.
“Would you? Well, I'd put you through, as sure as my name's Tom Shaw. Now, then, don't slip, Polly,” and Mr. Thomas helped them out with unusual politeness, for that friendly little speech gratified him. He felt that one person appreciated him; and it had a good effect upon manners and temper made rough and belligerent by constant snubbing and opposition.
After tea that evening, Fanny proposed that Polly should show her how to make molasses candy, as it was cook's holiday, and the coast would be clear. Hoping to propitiate her tormentor, Fan invited Tom to join in the revel, and Polly begged that Maud might sit up and see the fun; so all four descended to the big kitchen, armed with aprons, hammers, spoons, and pans, and Polly assumed command of the forces. Tom was set to cracking nuts, and Maud to picking out the meats, for the candy was to be “tip-top.” Fan waited on Polly cook, who hovered over the kettle of boiling molasses till her face was the color of a peony. “Now, put in the nuts,” she said at last; and Tom emptied his plate into the foamy syrup, while the others watched with deep interest the mysterious concoction of this well-beloved sweetmeat. “I pour it into the buttered pan, you see, and it cools, and then we can eat it,” explained Polly, suiting the action to the word.