Polly | Page 7

the heavy make of her ugly frock, had a very sweet
and womanly expression. Polly, all angles and awkwardness, came next
in years; she was tall and very slim. Her face was small, her hair nearly
black and very untidy, and her big, dark, restless eyes reflected each
emotion of her mind.
Polly was lolling against the mantelpiece, and restlessly changing her
position from one leg to another; Katie, aged eleven, was something in
Helen's style; then came the twins, Dolly and Mabel, and then a rather
pale child, with a somewhat queer expression, commonly known in the
family as "Firefly." Her real name was Lucy, but no one ever dreamt of
calling her by this gentle title. "Firefly" was almost always in some sort
of disgrace, and scarcely knew what it was not to live in a state of
perpetual mental hot water. It was privately whispered in the family
circle that Polly encouraged her in her naughtiness. Whether that was
the case or not, these two had a kind of quaint, elfish friendship
between them, Firefly in her heart of hearts worshipping Polly, and
obeying her slightest nod or wish.
"I have sent for you, girls," said the Doctor, looking round tenderly at
his six motherless daughters, "to say that I have talked over matters
with Helen, and for the present at least, I am willing to give her plan a
trial. I think she is right when she tells me that if it turns out successful
nothing would please your mother more. It entirely depends on
yourselves whether it succeeds or fails. If you are agreeable to try it,
you can come to me to-morrow at this hour and tell me so. Now
good-by, my dears. Helen will explain everything to you. Helen, I shall
not be in for early dinner. Good-by, good-by to you all."
The Doctor nodded, looked half-abstractedly at the upturned young

faces, pushed his way through the little group, and taking up a parcel of
papers and a surgical case which lay near, went straight to his carriage,
which was heard immediately afterwards to bowl quickly down the
avenue.
The moment he was gone Helen was surrounded by a clamorous group.
"What is it, Nell? oh, do tell us--tell us quickly," said they, one and all.
"I thought Helen looked very important these last few days," said Dolly.
"Do tell us what it is, Nell, and what the plan is we are all to agree to."
"It sounds rather nice to be asked to agree to things," said Firefly.
"What's the matter, Poll? You look grumpy."
"I think Helen may be allowed to speak," said Polly. "Go on, Nell, out
with the budget of news. And you young ones, you had better not
interrupt her, for if you do, I'll pay you out by-and-by. Now, Nell.
Speak, Nell."
"It's this," said Helen.
She seated herself on the window-ledge, and Polly stood, tall and
defiant, at her back. Firefly dropped on her knees in front, and the
others lolled about anyhow.
"It's this," she said. "Father would like to carry on our education as
much in mother's way as possible. And he says that he is willing, for a
time at least, to do without having a resident elderly governess to live
with us."
"Oh, good gracious!" exclaimed Polly, "was there ever such an idea
thought of?"
"She'd have spectacles," said Dolly.
"And a hooked nose," remarked Katie.
"And she'd be sure to squint, and have false teeth, and I'd hate her,"

snapped Firefly, putting on her most vindictive face.
"Well, it's what's generally done," said Helen, in her grave, sad, steady,
young voice. "You remember the Brewsters when they--they had their
great sorrow--how an elderly governess came, and Aunt Maria
Cameron has written to father about two already. She speaks of them as
treasures; father showed me the letters. He says he supposes it is quite
the usual thing, and he asked me what I'd like. Poor father, you see he
must be out all day with the sick folks."
"Of course," murmured Polly. "Well, what did you answer him about
the old horrors, Nell?"
"One seemed rather nice," said Helen. "She was about forty-five, and
had thin grayish hair. Aunt Maria sent her photograph, and said that she
was a treasure, and that father ought not to lose an hour in securing her.
Her name was Miss Jenkins."
"Jenkins or Jones, I'd have given her sore bones," spitefully improvised
Firefly.
"Well, she's not to come," continued Helen, "at least, not at present. For
I have persuaded father to let us try the other plan. He says all our
relations will be angry with him; of course, he is not likely to care for
that. This is what we are to try, girls, if you