sore and angry, for that phrase, "It's only Polly," hurt her sadly. "As if I wasn't anybody, hadn't any feelings, and was only made to amuse or work for people! Fan and Tom are both mistaken, and I'll show them that Polly is awake," she thought, indignantly. "Why shouldn't I enjoy myself as well as the rest; besides, it's only Tom," she added, with a bitter smile, as she thought of Trix.
"Are you tired, Polly?" asked Tom, bending down to look into her face.
"Yes; of being nobody."
"Ah, but you ain't nobody; you're Polly, and you couldn't better that if you tried ever so hard," said Tom, warmly, for he really was fond of Polly, and felt uncommonly so just then.
"I'm glad you think so, any way; it's so pleasant to be liked," and she looked up with her face quite bright again.
"I always did like you; don't you know, ever since that first visit."
"But you teased me shamefully, for all that."
"So I did; but I don't now."
Polly did not answer, and Tom asked, with more anxiety than the occasion required,—
"Do I, Polly?"
"Not in the same way, Tom," she answered, in a tone that didn't sound quite natural.
"Well, I never will again."
"Yes, you will; you can't help it." And Polly's eye glanced at Sydney, who was in front with Fan.
Tom laughed, and drew Polly closer, as the crowd pressed, saying, with mock tenderness,—
