cribbled verses all the time."

"Oh, I didn't know that!" cried Betty. "How I wish I could see some of
them!"

"You shall, my dear! I have an old portfolio in the library, full of
such things. Poems that she wrote and pictures that Joyce's mother drew;
caricatures of the professors, the little pen and ink sketches of the
places in the Valley we loved the best. I'll get them out for you, after
dinner. You will all be interested in them, especially in a journal they
kept for me one summer when I was at the seashore. One kept a record of
all that happened in the Valley during my absence, and the other
illustrated it."

"Dinner is ready now," said Lloyd, jumping up as the maid opened the
dining-room door. As they all rose to go in, Mrs. Sherman lingered a
moment in the hall, to take the paper from Betty's hand.

"Will you give me this little poem, dear?" she asked, slipping an arm
around the child's waist. "I am very proud of my little god-daughter.
The world will hear from you some day, if you keep on singing. Just do
your bravest and best, and it will be glad to listen to your music."

She stooped and kissed Betty lightly on the forehead. It was as if she
had set the seal of her approval upon her, and to be approved by her
beautiful godmother,--ah, that meant more to the devoted little heart
than any one could dream; far more, even, than if she had been made the
proud laureate of a queen.

CHAPTER XII.

A PILLOW-CASE PARTY.

They were all sitting on the vine-covered porch, looking out between the
tall white pillars into the sultry June darkness. The light from the
hall lamp streamed across the steps where the four Bobs rolled and
tumbled around over each other, but except for that one broad path of
light they could see nothing. There was not even starlight.

"How hot and still it is," said Mrs. Sherman. "There doesn't seem to be
a leaf stirring, and there's not a star in sight. I think it will surely
storm before morning."

"Betty," said Joyce, "your 'shadowy queen who rules the realms of shade'
has forgotten to put on her crown. Now if I could write poetry like some
people I know, I would write an ode to Night and compare it to a stack
of black cats. It wouldn't sound so pretty as your description, but it
would be nearer the truth."

"Well, cats or queens, it doesn't make any difference what you call
it," said the Little Colonel, "it's the stupidest night I evah saw. I
wish something would happen. I