It did
n't make her very miserable, because patience, work, and
common-sense lent her a hand, and hope would keep popping up
its bright face from the bottom of her Pandora-box of troubles.
Now and then, when any one said Trix would n't jilt Tom, or that
Tom did care for Trix more than he should, Polly had a pang, and
thought she could n't possibly bear it. But she always found she
could, and so came to the conclusion that it was a merciful
provision of nature that girls' hearts could stand so much, and their
appetites continue good, when unrequited love was starving.
Now, she could not help yearning over this faulty, well-beloved
scapegrace Tom, or help thinking, with a little thrill of hope, "If
Trix only cared for his money, she may cast him off now he 's lost
it; but I 'll love him all the better because he 's poor." With this
feeling warm at her heart, I don't wonder that Polly's hand had a
soothing effect, and that after a heave or two, Tom's shoulders
were quiet, and certain smothered sniffs suggested that he would
be all right again, if he could only wipe his eyes without any one's
seeing him do it.
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