"Which one is it?" asked the childlike author.

"'A Winter Brook.'"

"Oh, yes! I like that myself."

"What lovely meter you write!" praised Polly. "The lines just sing themselves along."

"Do they? The publishers told me the meter was good. I guess my ear wouldn't let me have it any other way."

"Do you play or sing?" queried Polly.

"I used to--before we lost our money. Since then I haven't had any piano."

"That must have been hard to give up!" Tears sprang to Polly's eyes.

"Yes, it was hard, but giving up a piano isn't the worst thing in the world."

"No," was the absent response. Polly was turning the leaves of the book, and she stopped as a line caught her fancy. Her smile came quickly as she read.

"Miss Twining!" she exclaimed, "I am so astonished to think you can write such lovely, lovely poems! Why, the June Holiday Home ought to be proud of you!"

"Oh, Polly!" The little woman blushed happily.

"Well, only real poets can write like this! If people knew about them I'm sure the book would sell. The poems that Mr. Parcell ends off his sermons with aren't half as good as these!"

Miss Twining smiled. "I wonder what made you think of him. Do you know--I never told this to a soul before--I have wished and wished that he would come across one of mine some day and like it so well that he would put it into a sermon! Oh, how I have wished that! I have even prayed about it! Seems to me it would be the best of anything I could hope to have on earth, to sit there in church and hear him repeat something of mine!--There! I'm foolish to tell you that! You'll think me a vain old woman!"

"No, I shall not!" cried Polly. "I should like it 'most as well as you would! It would be a beautiful happening. And probably he would if he knew them. Did you ever give him a book?"

"Oh, no, indeed! I shouldn't dare!"

"Why not? He is very nice to talk with."

"Yes, I know. He calls on me every year or two. I like him."

"I do, and I want him to read your poems. Do you mind if I take this home to show to father and mother? They love poetry.--And then I'll mid a way for Mr. Parcell to see it!"

"Why, my dear, it is yours!"

"Oh, did you mean that?" Polly drew a long breath of delight. "I shall love it forever--and you, too!" Impulsively she put her arms round Miss Twining's neck and kissed her on both cheeks.

"If I thought Mr. Parcell wouldn't think it queer,"--hesitated Miss Twining,--"I have several copies, and I'd like to give him one; but I don't know--"

"Of course he wouldn't think it queer!" a.s.serted Polly. "He'd be delighted! He couldn't help it--such poetry as this is! I'll leave it at his house if you care to have me."

"Oh, would you? That is dear of you! I Was wondering how I'd get it to him. I'll do it right up now."

Miss Twining came back with the book, a little troubled scowl on her forehead.

"Oughtn't I to write an inscription in it? I don't know what to say."

"It would be nice," Polly nodded. "Of course you'll say it all right."

In a moment the poet was at her table, the book open before her.

She dipped her pen in the ink, then halted it, undecided.

"I wonder if this would be enough,--'To Rev. Norman S. Parcell, from his parishioner, Alice Ely Twining'?"

"That sounds all right to me," answered Polly deliberately.

"I can't say 'loving parishioner'--to a man," laughed Miss Twining a bit nervously.

"It isn't necessary," chuckled Polly.

"If he came to see me oftener I'd love him more," said the little woman wistfully.

"He'll come often enough now--you just wait! He hasn't anybody in his church that can write such poetry as this." She patted the little book caressingly.

"I hope he'll like it,--but I don't know," the author doubted.

"He will," smiled Polly.

In a moment the package was ready.

"It is so good of you to do it!" Miss Twining looked very happy.

"I love to do such errands as this," laughed Polly. "I'll be in to-morrow to tell you about it."

CHAPTER XXIV

"HOPE DEFERRED"

"I didn't see the minister," Polly reported to Miss Twining. "He and his wife were both away. So I left the book with the maid and said that you sent it to Mr. Parcell--that was right, wasn't it?"

"Certainly, and I thank you ever so much. I do hope he won't think me presumptuous," she added.

"Why, how could he--such a beautiful book as yours?"

"I don't know. He might. I lay awake last night thinking about it."

"You shouldn't have stayed awake a minute," laughed Polly. "I wouldn't wonder if you'd hear from him this afternoon. Then you'll stop worrying."

Miss Twining laughed a little, too. "I'm glad I sent it anyway,"

she said. "It has given me something to think of and something to hope for. The days are pretty monotonous here--oh, it is so nice to have you come running in! You don't know how much good you do me!"

"Do I? I guess it's because I'm such a chatterbox! There! I haven't told you what father and mother said about your book!