for my verses. Oh, it is heart-breaking business, this giving
away books!"

"I should have thought it was about the most delightful thing,"
mused Polly soberly.

"It may be with some writers. Perhaps my experience is
exceptional--I hope so. It took away nearly all the pleasure of
having a book. Of course a few friends said just the right thing
in the right way and said it so simply that I believe they meant
what they said. I never felt that my work was anything wonderful.
I did my best always, and I was happy when any one saw in it
something to like and took the trouble to tell me so--that was all."

"I should think that was little enough for any author to expect,"
said Polly. "I always supposed authors had a jolly good time, with
everybody praising their work. I never saw anything of yours--I
guess I should like it. I love poetry!"

"You do?" Miss Twining started to get up, then sat down again. "I
wonder if you would care for my verses?" she hesitated. "You could
have a copy as well as not." Her soft eyes rested on Polly's face.

"Oh, I should love them--I know I should!" Polly declared.

Miss Twining went over to her closet and stooped to a trunk at the
end.

"There!" she said, putting in Polly's hand a small, cloth-bound
volume neatly lettered, "Hilltop Days."

The girl opened it at random. Her eye caught a title, and she read
the poem through.

"That is beautiful!" she cried impulsively.

"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