“ Oh, I'd like it well enough, if there was any one explain it to me. Old Deane puts us through double-quick, and don't give a fellow time to ask questions when we read.”
“ Ask your father; he knows.”
“ Don't believe he does; should n't dare to bother him, if he did.”
“ Why not?”
“ He'd pull my ears, and call me a'stupid,' or tell me not to worry him.”
“ I don't think he would. He's very kind to me, and I ask lots of questions.”
“ He likes you better than he does me.”
“ Now, Tom! it's wrong of you to say so. Of course he loves you ever so much more than he does me,” cried Polly, reprovingly.
“ Why don't he show it then?” muttered Tom, with a half-wistful, half-defiant glance toward the library door, which stood ajar.
“ You act so, how can he?” asked Polly, after a pause,
