“I won't, but now I'm not afraid to tell you that I think, I hope, I do believe that Sydney cares a little for me. He's been very kind to us all, and lately he has seemed to like to see me always when he comes and miss me if I'm gone. I did n't dare to hope anything, till Papa observed something in his manner, and teased me about it. I try not to deceive myself, but it does seem as if there was a chance of happiness for me.”
“Thank heaven for that!” cried Polly, with the heartiest satisfaction in her voice. “Now come and tell me all about it,” she added, sitting down on the couch with the air of one who has escaped a great peril.
“I've got some notes and things I want to ask your opinion about, if they really mean anything, you know,” said Fanny, getting out a bundle of papers from the inmost recesses of her desk. “There's a photograph of Tom, came in his last letter. Good, is n't it? He looks older, but that's the beard and the rough coat, I suppose. Dear old fellow, he is doing so well I really begin to feel quite proud of him.”
Fan tossed her the photograph, and went on rummaging for a certain note. She did not see Polly catch up the picture and look at it with hungry eyes, but she did hear something in the low tone in which Polly said, “It don't do him justice,” and glancing over her shoulder, Fan's quick eye caught a glimpse of the truth, though Polly was half turned away from her. Without stopping to think, Fan dropped her letters, took Polly by the shoulders, and cried in a tone full of astonishment, “Polly, is it Tom?”
Poor Polly was so taken by surprise, that she had not a word to say. None were needed; her telltale face answered for her, as well as the impulse which made her hide her head in the sofa cushion, like a foolish ostrich when the hunters are after it.
“Oh, Polly, I am so glad! I never thought of it you are so good, and he's such a wild boy, I can't believe it but it is so dear of you to care for him.”
“Could n't help it tried not to but it was so hard you know, Fan, you know,” said a stifled voice from the depths of the very fuzzy cushion which Tom had once condemned.
The last words, and the appealing hand outstretched to her, told Fanny the secret of her friend's tender sympathy for her own love troubles, and seemed so pathetic, that she took Polly in her arms, and cried over her, in the fond, foolish way girls have of doing when their hearts are full, and tears can say more than tongues. The silence never lasts long, however, for the feminine desire to “talk it over” usually gets the better of the deepest emotion. So presently the girls were hard at it, Polly very humble and downcast, Fanny excited and overflowing with curiosity and delight.
“Really my sister! You dear thing, how heavenly that will be,” she cried.
“It never will be,” answered Polly in a tone of calm despair.