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 lull 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."
"Couldn'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,
