"For a long time I had not been in the spirit of writing, but that day I just had to write those verses, and when the paper accepted them it seemed to give me strength and courage and pleasure all at once. I was so happy that morning, thinking I could earn enough to buy me little things I want and perhaps some new books besides."
"I've felt like crying about it ever since," said Polly sadly.
"You have written a good deal, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes! When I was at home with father and mother I wrote nearly every day. I had a book published," she added a little shyly.
"You did! That must be lovely—to publish a book!" Polly beamed brightly on the little woman in the rocker.
"Yes, it was pleasant—part of it! It didn't sell so well as I hoped it would. The publishers said I couldn't expect it, as I hadn't much reputation, and it takes reputation to make poetry sell. They said it was good verse, and the editors had been so hospitable to me I counted on the public—" She shook her head with a sad little smile. "I even counted on my friends—that was the hardest part of the whole business!"
"Surely your friends would buy it!" cried Polly.
"I don't know whether they did or not—I didn't mean that. I mean, giving away my books—that was the heart-breaking part!"
"I don't understand. Miss Twining."
"Before it was published—years before," went on the little woman reminiscently, "I used to think that if I ever did have books to give to my friends, how beautiful it would be! I thought it all out from beginning to end—the end as I saw it! I wrote inscriptions by the dozen long before the book was even planned. It looked to me the most exquisite pleasure to give to my friends the work of my own brain, and I pictured their joy of receiving!" She gave a short laugh.
"But, Miss Twining, you don't mean—you can't mean—that they didn't like it!"