"And is he very wise, good, and splendid, dear?"
"No."
"He ought to be if you love him. I hope he isn't bad?" cried Fan, anxiously, still holding Polly, who kept her head obstinately turned.
"I'm suited, that's enough."
"Oh, please just tell me one thing more; don't he love back again?"
"No. Now don't say another word; I can't bear it!" and Polly drew herself away, as she spoke in a desperate sort of tone.
"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 didn'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, isn'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."
