"No, don't look like that, my poor dear; it is n't Tom, it 's I!" Of course there was a rapture, followed by one of the deliciously confidential talks which bosom friends enjoy, interspersed with tears and kisses, smiles and sighs.
"Oh, Polly, though I 've waited and hoped so long I could n't believe it when it came, and don't deserve it; but I will! for the knowledge that he loves me seems to make everything possible," said Fanny, with an expression which made her really beautiful, for the first time in her life.
"You happy girl!" sighed Polly, then smiled and added, "I think you deserve all that 's come to you, for you have truly tried to be worthy of it, and whether it ever came or not that would have been a thing to be proud of." "He says that is what made him love me," answered Fanny, never calling her lover by his name, but making the little personal pronoun a very sweet word by the tone in which she uttered it.

"He was disappointed in me last year, he told me, but you said good things about me and though he did n't care much then, yet when he lost you, and came back to me, he found that you were not altogether mistaken, and he has watched me all this winter, learning to respect and love me better every day.

Oh, Polly, when he said that, I could n't bear it, because in spite of all my trying, I 'm still so weak and poor and silly." "We don't think so; and I know you 'll be all he hopes to find you, for he 's just the husband you ought to have." "Thank you all the more, then, for not keeping him yourself," said Fanny, laughing the old blithe laugh again.
"That was only a slight aberration of his; he knew better all the time.
It was your white cloak and my idiotic behavior the night we went to the opera that put the idea into his head," said Polly, feeling as if the events of that evening had happened some twenty years ago, when she was a giddy young thing, fond of gay bonnets and girlish pranks.
"I 'm not going to tell Tom a word about it, but keep it for a surprise till he comes.

He will be here next week, and then we 'll have a grand clearing up of mysteries," said Fan, evidently feeling that the millennium was at hand.
"Perhaps," said Polly, as her heart fluttered and then sunk, for this was a case where she could do nothing but hope, and keep her hands busy with Will's new set of shirts.
There is a good deal more of this sort of silent suffering than the world suspects, for the "women who dare" are few, the women who "stand and wait" are many.

But if work-baskets were gifted with powers of speech, they could tell stories more true and tender than any we read.
For women often sew the tragedy or comedy of life into their work as they sit apparently safe and serene at home, yet are thinking deeply, living whole heart-histories, and praying fervent prayers while they embroider pretty trifles or do the weekly mending..