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.
"If he came to see me oftener I'd love him more," said the little woman wistfully.
"He'll come often enough now—you just wait! He hasn't anybody in his church that can write such poetry as this." She patted the little book caressingly.