"Oh, yes! I remember! Her illness is not serious, I hope."

"I am afraid so," returned Polly, pa.s.sing quickly toward what she had come to talk about. "I don't suppose you know what a beautiful woman she is." She looked straight into his eyes, and waited.

"No," he answered slowly, a suggestion of doubt in his tone, "I presume not. I have seen her only occasionally."

"She told me that you called upon her every year or two." Polly hesitated. "You can judge something by her poems. You received the book of poems she sent you?"

"Oh, yes!" he brightened. "I have the book."

"How do you like it, Mr. Parcell? Don't you think the poems wonderful?" Polly was sitting very straight in the cushioned chair, her brown eyes fixed keenly on the minister's face.

"Why,"--he moved a little uneasily--"I really--don't know--" He threw back his head with a little smile. "To be frank, Miss Polly, I haven't read them."

Something flashed into the young face opposite that startled the man.

"Do you mean, Mr. Parcell," Polly said slowly, "that you have not read the book at all?" Her emphasis made her thought clear, and his cheeks reddened.

"I shall have to own up to my neglect," he replied. "You know I am a very busy man, Miss Polly."

"You needn't bother with the 'Miss,'" she answered; "n.o.body does.

Then, that is why you haven't said 'thank you'--you don't feel 'thank you'!"

"Oh, my dear Polly! I am very grateful to Miss Twining, I a.s.sure you, and I realize that I should have sent her a note of thanks; but--in fact, I don't recollect just how it was--I presume I was waiting until I had read the book, and--I may as well confess it!--I was somewhat afraid to read it."

"Afraid?" Polly looked puzzled.

"Such things are apt to be dreary reading," he smiled. "I am rather a crank as regards poetry."

The flash came again into Polly's face. "Oh!" she cried, fine scorn in her voice, "you thought the poems weren't good!"

He found himself nodding mechanically.

"Where is the book?" she demanded, glancing about the room.

"I--really don't know where I did leave it--" He scanned his cases with a troubled frown.

Tears sprang to the girl's eyes. She seemed to see Alice Twining's gentle, appealing face, as it had looked when she said, "I hope he doesn't think I am presumptuous in sending it." She dashed away the drops, and went on glancing along the rows of books. The minister had risen, but Polly darted ahead of him and pounced upon a small volume.

"Here it is!" She touched it caressingly, as if to make up for recent neglect.

"Your eyes are quicker than mine," said Mr. Parcell, taking it from her hand.

"Read it!" she said, and went back to her chair,

The minister obeyed meekly. Polly's eyes did not leave him.

He had opened the book at random, and with deepened color and a disturbed countenance had done as he was bidden. Surprise, pleasure, astonishment, delight,--all these the watcher saw in the face above the pages.

Five minutes went by, ten, twenty; still the Reverend Norman Parcell read on! Polly, mouse-quiet, divided her softening gaze between the clergyman and the clock. The pointers had crept almost to four when the telephone called. The reader answered. Then he walked slowly back from the instrument and picked up the book.

"Miss Twining must be a remarkable woman," he began, "to write such poetry as this--for it is poetry!"

"She is remarkable," replied Polly quietly. "She is finer even than her poems."

The minister nodded acquiescently. "This 'Peter the Great,'" he went on, running over the leaves, "is a marvelous thing!"

"Isn't it! If you could have told her that"--Polly's tone was gentle--"it would have spared her a lot of suffering."

"Has she so poor an opinion of her work?

"Oh, not that exactly; but"--she smiled sadly--"you have never said 'thank you', you know!"

The lines on his face deepened. "I have been unpardonably rude, and have done Miss Twining an injustice besides--I am sorry, very sorry!"

"She had had pretty hard experiences in giving away her books, but I persuaded her to send one to you, for I knew you liked poetry and I thought you would appreciate it. I was sorry afterwards that I did. It only brought her more disappointment. She cried and cried because she did not hear from you. I'm afraid I ought not to tell you this--she wouldn't let me if she knew. But I thought if you could just write her a little note--she isn't allowed to see anybody--it might do her good and help her to get well."

"I certainly will, my dear! I shall be glad to do so!"

"You see," Polly went on, "she fears that perhaps you scorn her book and consider her presuming to send it to you--and that is what hurts. She has lain awake nights and grieved so over it, I could have cried for her!" Polly was near crying now.

"The worst of such mistakes," the man said sorrowfully, "is that we cannot go back and blot out the tears and the suffering and make things as they might have been. If we only could!"

"A note from you will make her very happy," Polly smiled.

"She shall have it at once," the minister promised; adding, "I am glad she is in so beautiful a Home."

Polly shook her head promptly. "No, Mr. Parcell, it is not a beautiful Home, it is a prison--a horrible prison!"

"Why, my dear! I do not understand--"

"I don't want you to understand!" Polly cried hurriedly. "I ought not to have said that! Only it came out! You will know, Mr.

Parcell, before long--people shall know! I won't have--oh, I mustn't say any more! Don't tell a word of this, Mr. Parcell.

Promise me you won't!"

"My dear child,"--the man gazed at her as if he doubted her sanity,--"tell me what the trouble is! Perhaps I shall be able to help matters."

"Oh, no, you can't! It must work out! I am going to see Mr.

Randolph as soon as--I can. But please promise me not to say a word about it to anybody!"

"I shall certainly repeat nothing that you have told me. Indeed, there is little I could say; I do not understand it at all. I supposed the June Holiday Home was a model in every respect."

Polly shook her head sadly.

"I am there every day, Mr. Parcell, and I know! The ladies are lovely--most of them. They can't say a word, or they'd be turned out, and I've kept still too long! But I mustn't tell you any more." Polly drew a long breath. "I must go now, Mr. Parcell. I am so glad you like Miss Twining's poems! And you'll forgive me, won't you, for all I have said?"

"There is nothing to forgive, my dear."

"I don't know, maybe I've said too much; but I knew you must have lots of presents, and I kept thinking of those people that perhaps you wouldn't thank, and I felt somebody must tell you, and there wasn't anybody else to do it. Then, as I said, I hoped you would like Miss Twining's poems well enough to tell her so. And I just had to come!"