"Oh, Lester, you MUSTN'T!" cried Rose.

"Yes, I must!" said the boy. "She sneaked off into the house when you weren't looking, so she can't hear me, and when she's too far off to hear, I have to call her some kind of a horrid name, 'cause it helps me some!"

"But she's your own cousin, and you oughtn't, you know. If it isn't wicked, it MUST be naughty to call her a ninny," said Rose.

"I wish she wasn't my cousin, I ain't fond of her," said the boy, with a frown on his handsome face.

"She did a mean thing this morning, and I'll get even with her," he continued, "and when she wrote one of her everlasting old poems about me, it was more than I could stand. Just read it and I guess you won't blame me."

He thrust a crumpled bit of paper over the hedge.

Rose ran to the hedge, and took the paper. She was curious to know what kind of a poem Lester had inspired.

Who could blame her that she laughed when she read the ridiculous lines?

"Lester's a boy, but he's not brave; The cat scratched him, and he cried.

He's not the kind of a boy I like Although I've often tried.

His eyes are brown, but I don't care; His freckles are yellow, and so is his hair.

He teases, so he has no heart, And he runs after the old ice-cart."

"Could a fellow stand THAT? said Lester, his cheeks very red.

"It wasn't nice," said Rose, "and Lester, wait a moment," as the boy turned to go.

"This is Polly Sherwood, my best friend. Polly, this is Lester Jenks.

He's a nice boy, only he's provoked this morning."

Polly offered her little hand over the hedge, and Lester blushed, and took it.

"Are you the little princess?" he asked bluntly.

"Just a make-believe one," said Polly.

"We all call her 'Princess Polly' at home," Rose explained.

"You look right to be called that anywhere," said Lester, and it was Polly's turn to blush.

"I'd like to come over some day," he said.

"Come NOW," said Rose.

"I wish I could, but I can't," said the boy. "I've an errand to do for my aunt, and I ought to go now. I'll come some other day, perhaps to-morrow. I've some money, and I'd like to treat."

He looked admiringly at Polly, and Rose was delighted.

"He's ever so much fun," she said, when Lester had gone to do the errand that he had spoken of.

"He lives the next house to Evangeline," she continued, "and he's awfully tired of her poetry."

Polly did not wonder at that.

"And I DO hope, when he comes, Evangeline won't come with him," said Rose.

"So do I," agreed Polly, "only it may be that she's nice SOMETIMES."

Rose came closer, and looking straight into Polly's blue eyes, she said:

"She brings her old poetry book EVERY time!"

"Oh, dear, can't she leave it at home?" said Polly.

"She WON'T," said Rose, "and she's either writing in it, or reading it all the time, so there's not a minute for play."

"Doesn't she care for 'Tag' or 'Hide-and-Seek?'" questioned Polly.

"She doesn't EVER like anything but that poetry," declared Rose.

"Oh, dear," sighed Polly, for she felt that if Evangeline were to come often, she would spoil much of the visit that, without her, would be so pleasant.

"We'll be out sometimes," said Rose, "for Aunt Rose will take us about, and we're to go to the studio some day when Aunt Lois goes. I've been there, and the pictures are lovely, and some days we shall drive, and then if she comes she won't find us."

"If she'll come on the days that we're OUT, and stay away the days that we're at home, it will be just FINE!"

"Oh, Rose, I believed it's naughty, but I would be glad if it happened, just HAPPENED that way," Polly said.

CHAPTER IV

THE VILLAGE NUISANCE

At Sherwood Hall Polly was greatly missed, and her playmates felt less interest in their games now that she was not with them.

In all the village there was no one so lonely as Aunt Judith. She missed the merry chatter of happy, cheery Rose. Bright, and merry she had been, even although there were many things that she longed for, and could not have, most of all, some one to love her.

Now, as Aunt Judith busied herself about the cottage, or out in the tiny garden, she realized how much the child's hands had helped.

"She used to dust for me," she would say to herself, as she moved about the tiny sitting room, putting it in order.

"She always fed the chickens," she murmured, one morning, on her way out to the coop.

She stooped to open the door, when a shrill voice shouted at her.

"Look out! Look out! The ol' rooster's mad!"