"Then you think it's rather a great thing to be able to write?"
"I do indeed!" And the reverence of the book-lover thrilled through his tone.
"I'm glad you feel that way about writers, Peter," she remarked archly, "because—we have one up at our house." And she extended a note-book to him, a thin, paper-backed book such as his class used for compositions.
"You mean—Sheila?" For he had expected this.
"Yes. It's happened!—as I told you it would." And her voice was very grave now.
He opened the book—and discovered that Sheila's efforts were poems. "I'll read them to-night," he said cautiously.
But Mrs. Caldwell would not let him escape so easily: "No, Peter, please. If you have the time, read them now. There are only a few, and I can't go home without a message from you about them. Sheila's waiting up there—and she's simply tense!"
"Then she knows you've brought them to me?"
"Of course. Do you think I'd have done it without her permission? Peter, don't neglect your manners with your grandchildren."
"I deserve the rebuke, Mrs. Caldwell. But if Sheila wants me to see her poems, why hasn't she brought them to me herself?"