lready, you know," answered Tom,
watching the operation with as much interest as if he had faith in the
omen.

Cutting carefully, slice after slice fell apart; each firm and dark,
spicy and rich, under the frosty rime above; and laying a specially
large piece in one of grandma's quaint little china plates, Polly added
the flowers and handed it to Tom, with a look that said a good deal,
for, seeing that he remembered her sermon, she was glad to find that her
allegory held good, in one sense at least. Tom's face brightened as he
took it, and after an inspection which amused the others very much he
looked up, saying, with an air of relief, "Plums all through; I 'm glad
I had a hand in it, but Polly deserves the credit, and must wear the
posy," and turning to her, he put the rose into her hair with more
gallantry than taste, for a thorn pricked her head, the leaves tickled
her ear, and the flower was upside down.

Fanny laughed at his want of skill, but Polly would n't have it altered,
and everybody fell to eating cake, as if indigestion was one of the lost
arts. They had a lively tea, and were getting on famously afterward,
when two letters were brought for Tom, who glanced at one, and retired
rather precipitately to his den, leaving Maud consumed with curiosity,
and the older girls slightly excited, for Fan thought she recognized the
handwriting on one, and Polly, on the other.

One half an hour and then another elapsed, and Tom did not return. Mr.
Shaw went out, Mrs. Shaw retired to her room escorted by Maud, and the
two girls sat together wondering if anything dreadful had happened. All
of a sudden a voice called, "Polly!" and that young lady started out of
her chair, as if the sound had been a thunder-clap.

"Do run! I 'm perfectly fainting to know what the matter is," said Fan.

"You 'd better go," began Polly, wishing to obey, yet feeling a little
shy.

"He don't want me; besides, I could n't say a word for myself if that
letter was from Sydney," cried Fanny, hustling her friend towards the
door, in a great flutter.

Polly went without another word, but she wore a curiously anxious look,
and stopped on the threshold of the den, as if a little afraid of its
occupant. Tom was sitting in his favorite attitude, astride of a chair,
with his arms folded and his chin on the top rail; not an elegant
posture, but the only one in which, he said, he could think well.

"Did you want me, Tom?"

"Yes. Come in, please, a