Just as
Polly ran down to meet Mr. Shaw one evening, and was helping
him off with his coat, the bell rang, and a fine bouquet of hothouse
flowers was left in Polly's hands, for she never could learn city
ways, and opened the door herself.
"Hey! what's this? My little Polly is beginning early, after all," said
Mr. Shaw, laughing, as he watched the girl's face dimple and flush,
as she smelt the lovely nosegay, and glanced at a note half hidden
in the heliotrope.
Now, if Polly had n't been "stupid," as Fan said, she would have
had her wits about her, and let it pass; but, you see, Polly was an
honest little soul and it never occurred to her that there was any
need of concealment, so she answered in her straightforward way,
"Oh, they ain't for me, sir; they are for Fan; from Mr. Frank, I
guess. She 'll be so pleased."
"That puppy sends her things of this sort, does he?" And Mr. Shaw
looked far from pleased as he pulled out the note, and coolly
opened it.
Polly had her doubts about Fan's approval of that "sort of thing,"
but dared not say a word, and stood thinking how she used to show
her father the funny valentines the boys sent her, and how they
laughed over them together.
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