"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 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!"