"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."