"Oh, don't, Joan!" exclaimed Millicent, who had a pencil in her hand, and had hastily thrust a morocco-bound book under the sofa pillow when her sister entered. "You do startle me so. What is to be on the 30th of April?"

"The fair, of course. Now don't pretend you don't know anything about it, when the Pearsons have talked of nothing else for weeks."

"I have had other things to think of," returned Millicent, with dignity.

"For one thing, I am wondering which of us three Cousin Appolina will take with her to England. If she only would choose me! And then--oh, there are other things!" And she nibbled the end of her pencil.

Millicent was Joanna's only sister, and she had beautiful golden hair, large blue eyes, and poetic tendencies. Joan was very sure that the morocco-bound book, of which she had caught a glimpse more than once when it was thrust away just as it had been this afternoon, contained poems--actual poems.

Joan gazed at her sister, as she lay back among the big cushions, with pride and admiration not unmixed with envy. She would so love to write poetry herself, but next best to that was having a sister who could do it. She only wished that Milly would let her see something that she had written. She could then a.s.sure her cousin, Peggy Reid, with absolute knowledge of facts, that her sister was a poetess. Now she could only darkly hint upon the subject, and it was not altogether satisfactory, for she felt confident that Peggy did not believe her.

But at present the fair was the all-absorbing topic, and Joanna returned to the charge. "We shall have to send something, Milly, for Mrs. Pearson said she depended upon us, and it is for such a good object she said she knew we would help her all we could. It is to furnish the new chapel, you know: to get a lee--lack--luck--something for them to read the Bible on. What is it, Milly?"

"A 'lectern,' I suppose you mean."

"Yes, that's it--'lectern'; and a big Bible to put on it, and lots of Prayer-books and Hymnals to stick around the church, and some vases for flowers, and a bra.s.s cross and foot-stools, and lots of other things they need. Mrs. Pearson said we must try to send as many fancy articles as we could to the fair, and try to sell some tickets."

"I have no time to make anything, and besides I don't do any fancy-work," said Millicent; "and if you don't mind, Joan, I wish you would go. I am very busy just now."

"You don't look a bit busy. What are you doing? Nothing but biting a pencil. I wish you would tell me what you were doing when I came in, Mill."

"If you only would not call me 'Mill' or 'Milly'! I simply detest it. As long as I have a good name, I do wish I could be called by it."

"I promise and vow I will always call you Millicent, full length, if you will only tell me what you were doing when I came in."

"I can't, Joan. Do go away. It was--nothing of any importance."

"Oh, Milly--I mean Millicent--please, _please_ tell me! I do so want to know, and I am only your own little sister, who never did you any harm, and who wants to know so much. Won't you tell me?"

Joanna had slipped down on the floor by her sister's side. One arm she threw across Millicent, the other went under the sofa pillow. In a moment the morocco blank-book was in her hand. She clutched it tightly.

If she only dared draw it out, run away with it, and read it! Peggy would have done it without any hesitation whatever, but then Joanna was not Peggy.

Millicent looked at her pensively. Sympathy is pleasant, particularly to a poet, and she felt sure that Joan, if any one, would appreciate some of the beauties of her verse.

"I really believe I will," she said at length; "only, Joan, I don't want Peggy to know anything about it. Peggy does laugh so at everything. Not that there is anything to laugh at in these little poems of mine--for they are real poems, Joan. Do you know I actually write poetry? Did you ever have any idea of it?"

"I am not a bit surprised," declared Joan. "In fact, I was almost sure of it. I am so glad you are going to let me see them. They are in this book, aren't they? Oh, Milly--I mean Millicent--think of your being a poetess! Do hurry up. Shall I read them myself, or will you read them to me?"

"I will read them aloud. I can do it with more expression, probably, for I know just where to put the emphasis, and it makes a great difference in poetry. I often think that if I could only take them myself to the editors of the magazines and read the poems to them, they would be more apt to take them."

"Of course they would. But do you mean to say, Millicent, that you have really sent anything to the magazines?"

"Certainly I have. I want recognition, but somehow they don't seem to suit."

"How hateful!" exclaimed Joan, with a sympathy that warmed her sister's heart. "But do hurry up and read them. I am dying to hear what you have written."

Millicent opened the book and turned over the pages. She could not quite decide which she should choose as her first selection. Before she had made it, however, there was a tap at the door, and then, without waiting for a reply, a tall girl of sixteen came into the room.

Again the morocco-bound book went under the sofa pillow, and Joanna could not suppress an exclamation of disappointment.

"What's the matter? What's up?" said their cousin Peggy, glancing quickly from one to the other. "Secrets? Now that's not a bit fair, to have secrets from me. I've got oceans of things to talk about; but, first of all, I met the postman just as I was coming in, and he gave me this for you, Mill. This huge envelope, and addressed in your own handwriting. It's awfully mysterious, and I am just about wild with curiosity. You must tell me what it is."

A blank look came over Millicent's face, but she took the letter and said nothing.

"Oh, come, now, aren't you going to tell us?" continued Peggy. "I'll never tell."

"Do, Millicent!" urged Joanna. "If it's--if it has anything to do with what we were talking about when Peggy came in, you may as well tell. I want Peggy to know about it, and I'm sure she would like to hear them too."

"Hear them? What in the world is it? Oh, I know! I know!" cried Peggy: "you have been writing and sending things to the magazines! Oh, Milly, _do_ show me!"

Millicent looked at her long and doubtfully. "Will you never, never tell?" she asked at last.

"Never, on my oath!"

"I believe I will tell you, then, for I do think it is the meanest thing in those editors, and I just want to see what they have said this time, whether they have answered my note."

She opened the envelope and drew forth several papers, one of which appeared to be a printed one.

"No, they haven't. They have just sent the same old slip they always do, thanking me ever so much for sending the poems, and it may not be because they are not good that they send them back, but because they have so many things on hand. Oh dear, I think they might have answered it!"

"What did you say in your note?" asked Peggy.

"Oh, I told them that I thought these poems were perfectly suited to their magazine, and so they are. And I asked them to tell me of a good place to send them if they couldn't take them. I do think the man might have had the politeness to answer my note."

"Well, do let us hear them," put in Peggy, briskly. "I am wild to know what they are like."

Millicent again looked at her doubtfully. But in a moment she took a more upright position on the sofa, and holding her pretty head a little to one side, she remarked:

"This is a little poem on something which is very familiar to us, but I like the idea of idealizing familiar things." Then she paused. "Oh, I don't believe I can read it, after all," she said, in an embarra.s.sed way; "it is very hard to read your own productions."

"Then let me read it," cried Peggy, attempting to seize the paper.

"No, no! I would rather do it myself than have you," said Millicent, and presently she coughed hesitatingly and began. "It is about the mosquito, and is called

"LINES TO A MOSQUITO.

"When day is done, and darkness comes shadowing down the way, And Night with her rustling winglets blots out the garish day, We hear the song of an insect, singing its musical lay.

"Oh, insect with wings that flutter! Oh, insect on murder intent, Oh, creature, we'd love thee dearly if thou wert not on bloodshed bent!

And we'd bear with thy visits gladly, we e'en would be content.

"Then cease thy busy prattle, and cease thy dangerous stings, Learn, learn to be meek and lamblike like other less-harmful things.

Till we hail with joy thy coming, thy coming on peaceful wings!"

Here the poem ended, and the reader paused for the applause which she felt to be her due. Peggy had turned aside, and was leaning her head upon her hand so that Millicent could not see her face. Joan was the first to speak.

"Millicent, how perfectly lovely! Did you really do it all yourself? You are the smartest thing I ever knew. That beginning was just too perfect.

Somehow it reminded me of something else."