"Oh, nothing much; at least, I'll tell you by and by. Go and get your hat, and come on."

"The Bridget Society" as Alan disrespectfully called it, had been in operation for about two weeks now; but though it had proved an absorbing subject to the girls, yet it took very little of their time, and left them nearly as free as ever for their usual occupations. Their common interest in the one work, however, had bound the six girls even more closely together than before, until they depended on one another's help and sympathy, in any and every question that arose.

It was a clear, bracing day, so cold that the white frost was still glittering on the gra.s.s-blades in the more sheltered corners, so clear that the bare, rough ledges of the western mountain looked so near that one could toss a stone up to the pile of broken rocks which marked the line of their bases; while far across the river valley, the sun lay warm upon the roofs and towers of the town nestling on the hillside, and touched with a golden light the tall, slender spire of the little church. The girls walked briskly away through the town and out towards the river, a mile away. Polly appeared to be unusually excited, whether by the crisp air or by her new winter coat, Molly was at a loss to decide. It was a fine day, surely; but the more Molly studied the long dark-blue coat trimmed with chinchilla, and the saucy little blue cap edged with the same soft fur, and c.o.c.ked on the back of Polly's curls, she came to the conclusion that Polly's spirits were affected by her becoming suit. That being the case, it was plainly her duty to remove Polly's worldly pride.

"Do try to walk like a civilized being, Polly!" she exclaimed, as her friend suddenly pounced into the midst of a flock of hens that were pluming themselves in a sunny fence-corner. "People will think you're crazy, if you act so."

"Well, what if they do?" said Polly, laughing. "I don't care what they think, I wanted to astonish those hens. Shoo!" And she charged upon them again, brandishing a dry stick which she had picked up by the roadside.

In spite of herself Molly laughed as she clutched her friend firmly by the elbow and dragged her onward, out of temptation's way.

"You'll have the jailer and the fire department out after you,"

she said, as she guided Polly's erring footsteps back into the concrete path of virtue. "Do come along! Besides, you had something to tell me."

Polly's face grew suddenly grave, and the hot blood rushed to her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was trembling with suppressed excitement.

"Wait till we get out on the bridge, Molly," she begged. "We'll be all alone there."

So it wasn't the new coat, after all. Molly's brow cleared.

"How queer you are, Polly!" she said. "I can't stand it to wait, I am so wild to know. Come on, let's have a race to the bridge, then."

"But you just said I mustn't run," protested Polly, hanging back.

"Not after hens, when the owner is looking on," answered Molly; "but it's our own affair, if we want to run a race. Come on."

She threw the last word back over her shoulder as she went darting away, followed by Polly who soon pa.s.sed her, laughing and breathless. In the middle of the long, white bridge she stopped and looked about her, struck by the beauty of the familiar scene around, the soft hills at the north, the shining, river as it wound along through the russet meadow gra.s.s, and cut its way between the southern mountains, over which slowly flitted the clouds above. A few belated crows rose and sank down again over the deserted corn-fields, while, from the red house on the river bank, the great black dog barked an answer to their hoa.r.s.e cries.

No other living thing was in sight as Molly joined her friend, and they stood leaning against the iron rail, with their backs turned to the cutting wind that came down upon them from the northern hills.

"Now, Polly." And Molly paused expectantly.

From rosy red, Polly's face grew very white, and her breath came short and hurried. She hesitated for an instant, then plunged her mittened hand into her coat pocket, and pulled out a dingy sheet of paper whose folds, worn till they were transparent, showed the marks of long service. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out, tearing it a little, in her excitement. Then she turned to Molly.

"Now, Molly Hapgood," she said solemnly; "will you promise never to tell, if I tell you something that there doesn't anybody else know, that I've never even shown to mamma?"

"Go on, Polly!" urged her friend impatiently, trying to steal a glance at the worn-out sheet, which was covered with Polly's irregular, childish writing. But Polly edged cautiously away.

"Now remember," she said again; "you're the only single soul in the world that knows this, Molly; and I am telling you my secret because I know you love me. I've--" there was a catch in her breath--"I've written a poem!"

"Really!" And Molly's eyes grew round with astonishment and respectful awe.

"Yes," Polly went on more calmly, now the great secret was out; "I knew I could, and it was just as easy as could be."

"How did you ever know how?" inquired Molly, with a vague idea that she had never before appreciated this gifted friend.

"I didn't know how, at first," answered Polly, kindly exposing her methods of work to her friend's gaze. "I just knew that there ought to be some rhymes, and then I must say something or other to fill up the lines. One Sunday in church I read lots of hymns,-- Aunt Jane wasn't there, you know,--and then I went to work."

"Are you going to have it printed?" asked Molly.

"Not yet," said Polly. "I thought at first I would send it to the _News_, but I've a better plan. I'm going to copy it all out, and write my name on it and my age and how I came to write it, and put it away. After I'm dead and famous, somebody will find it, and it will be printed. Then people will make a fuss over it and call me a child prodigy and all sorts of nice things."

"But what's the use?" queried Molly. "When you're all nicely dead and buried, it can't do you any good."

"But just think how proud my children and grandchildren will be!"

exclaimed Polly enthusiastically.

"Maybe you won't have any," suggested Molly sceptically. "People that write are generally old maids, unless they are men."

Polly's face fell. Here was a flaw in her plans.

"Well, go on," said Molly. "Aren't you going to read it?"

Polly looked at the paper in her hand, cleared her throat nervously, drew a long breath, and cleared her throat again.

"What's the matter?" asked Molly unsympathetically. She had never written a poem, and had no idea of the mingled fear and pride that were waging war in Polly's mind. She spoke as the calm critic who waits to sit in judgment.

"I'm just going to begin now," said Polly faintly. Then, nerving herself to the task, she read aloud,--

"The children went chestnutting once, Out in the woods to stay all day, There's Maude and Sue and James and Kate, All there, for there's no school to-day."

Polly stopped to catch breath.

"Where'd you get your names?" inquired Molly critically.

Polly looked up with a startled air.

"Why, out of my head, of course."

"Oh, did you?" Molly's tone was not rea.s.suring. "Go on," she added.

"Maybe you'll like the next verse better," faltered Polly.

"The good, kind mothers pack the lunch Of bread and b.u.t.ter, meat and cake, So off they start at ten o'clock, For it is hot when it is late."

This time, Polly found her friend looking at her, with a scornful curl to her lips.

"I thought you said it was a poem," she said, with cutting emphasis; "but it sounds just exactly like a bill of fare."

This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire among dead twigs.

"Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me!

I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live."

As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool and collected.

"Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more able to write a poem than Job is."