And he actually sat down without much ado and committed them to memory, to Phyl’s deepest astonishment. Just before nine she went up-stairs to Dolly, her old tin hat-box in her hand.
“There’s that essay of mine on Moral Rectitude,” she said, “that will fill a column.”
“Oh, yes,” Dolly said, “I’d forgotten that, and I liked it very much.”
She took the closely-written sheets from her sister and glanced through them, deep admiration on her face. Phyl had of late, after a somewhat severe course of reading Ruskin, Emerson, and Marcus Aurelius, abjured story-writing for a time, and fallen instead to composing essays on high and abstruse subjects. They were written in a very lofty strain, contained as many quotations as she could possibly put in, and were full of moral reflections.
“But you said you’d write a poem too,” said the ever rapacious little editor. Phyl had been on the staff of the paper until a year ago, when she left school, and she was still always pressed into the service to help to fill up yawning columns, for the body of school-girls very, very seldom furnished any [215] ]work, and the editor and staff were often hard pushed for material.
Phyl produced her poem, not without anxiety on her face for her sister’s opinion; they criticized each other very frankly, these two, and hard truths often flew, though on frequent occasions they yielded each other the warmest admiration.
Dolly read the many verses, her eyes kindling at the end.
[“Oh, Phyl,] it’s beautiful!” she said; “It’s the very best thing you’ve done—oh, Phyl!”