An Old-Fashioned Girl Read Free

which produced such
     an explosion, that the young lady was borne screaming away, by the much-enduring Katy. It was altogether an uncomfortable
     dinner, and Polly was very glad when it was over. They all went about their own affairs, and after doing the honors of the
     house, Fan was called to the dressmaker, leaving Polly to amuse herself in the great drawing room.
    Polly was glad to be alone for a few minutes; and, having examined all the pretty things about her, began to walk up and down
     over the soft, flowery carpet, humming to herself, as the daylight faded, and only the ruddy glow of the fire filled the room.
     Presently Madam came slowly in, and sat down in her armchair, saying, “That’s a fine old tune; sing it to me, my dear. I haven’t
     heard it this many a day.”
    Polly didn’t like to sing before strangers, for she had had no teaching but such as her busy mother could give her; but she
     had been taught the utmost respect for old people, and having no reason for refusing, she directly went to the piano, and
     did as she was bid.
    “That’s the sort of music it’s a pleasure to hear. Sing some more, dear,” said Madam, in her gentle way, when she had done.
    Pleased with this praise, Polly sang away in a fresh little voice, that went straight to the listener’s heart and nestled
     there. The sweet old tunes that one is never tired of were all Polly’s store; and her favorites were Scotch airs, such as,
     “Yellow-Haired Laddie,” “Jock o’ Hazeldean,” “Down amang the Heather,” and “Birks of Aberfeldie.” The more she sung, the better
     she did it; and when she wound up with “A Health to King Charlie,” the room quite rung with the stirring music made by the
     big piano and the little maid.
    “By George, that’s a jolly tune! Sing it again, please,” cried Tom’s voice; and there was Tom’s red head bobbing up over the
     high back of the chair where he had hidden himself.
    It gave Polly quite a turn, for she thought no one was hearing her but the old lady dozing by the fire. “I can’t sing any
     more; I’m tired,” she said, and walked away to Madam in the other room. The red head vanished like a meteor, for Polly’s tone
     had been decidedly cool.
    The old lady put out her hand, and drawing Polly to her knee, looked into her face with such kind eyes, that Polly forgot
     the impressive cap, and smiled at her confidingly; for she saw that her simple music had pleased her listener, and she felt
     glad to know it.
    “You mustn’t mind my staring, dear,” said Madam, softly pinching her rosy cheek. “I haven’t seen a little girl for so long,
     it does my old eyes good to look at you.”
    Polly thought that a very odd speech, and couldn’t help saying, “Aren’t Fan and Maud little girls, too?”
    “Oh, dear, no! Not what
I
call little girls. Fan has been a young lady this two years, and Maud is a spoiled baby. Your mother’s a very sensible woman,
     my child.”
    “What a very queer old lady!” thought Polly; but she said “Yes’m” respectfully, and looked at the fire.
    “You don’t understand what I mean, do you?” asked Madam, still holding her by the chin.
    “No’m; not quite.”
    “Well, dear, I’ll tell you. In my day, children of fourteen and fifteen didn’t dress in the height of the fashion; go to parties,
     as nearly like those of grown people as it’s possible to make them; lead idle, giddy, unhealthy lives, and get
blasé
at twenty. We were little folks till eighteen or so; worked and studied, dressed and played, like children; honored our parents;
     and our days were much longer in the land than now, it seems to me.”
    The old lady appeared to forget Polly at the end of her speech; for she sat patting the plump little hand that lay in her
     own, and looking up at a faded picture of an old gentleman with a ruffled shirt and a queue.
    “Was he your father, Madam?”
    “Yes, dear; my honored father. I did up his frills to the day of his