y enough; she 'll probably be standing round
looking for us. I dare say she 'll know you, though I 'm not there,
because I 've described you to her."

"Guess she won't, then;" and Tom gave a hasty smooth to his curly pate
and a glance at the mirror, feeling sure that his sister had n't done
him justice. Sisters never do, as "we fellows" know too well.

"Do go along, or you 'll be too late; and then, what will Polly think
of me?" cried Fanny, with the impatient poke which is peculiarly
aggravating to masculine dignity.

"She 'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and
she 'll be about right, too."

Feeling that he said rather a neat and cutting thing, Tom sauntered
leisurely away, perfectly conscious that it was late, but bent on not
being hurried while in sight, though he ran himself off his legs to make
up for it afterward.

"If I was the President, I 'd make a law to shut up all boys till they
were grown; for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the
world," said Fanny, as she watched the slouchy figure of her brother
strolling down the street. She might have changed her mind, however,
if she had followed him, for as soon as he turned the corner, his whole
aspect altered; his hands came out of his pockets, he stopped whistling,
buttoned his jacket, gave his cap a pull, and went off at a great pace.

The train was just in when he reached the station, panting like a
race-horse, and as red as a lobster with the wind and the run.

"Suppose she 'll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob, like every one else;
and however shall I know her? Too bad of Fan to make me come alone!"
thought Tom, as he stood watching the crowd stream through the depot,
and feeling rather daunted at the array of young ladies who passed. As
none of them seemed looking for any one, he did not accost them, but
eyed each new batch with the air of a martyr. "That 's her," he said
to himself, as he presently caught sight of a girl in gorgeous array,
standing with her hands folded, and a very small hat perched on the top
of a very large "chig-non," as Tom pronounced it. "I suppose I 've got
to speak to her, so here goes;" and, nerving himself to the task, Tom
slowly approached the damsel, who looked as if the wind had blown her
clothes into rags, such a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls,
and feathers was there.

"I say, if you please, is your name Polly Milton?" meekly asked Tom,
pausing before the breezy str