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!" asserted 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.