"I promise and vow I will always call you Millicent, full length, if you will only tell me what you were doing when I came in."
"I can't, Joan. Do go away. It was—nothing of any importance."
"Oh, Milly—I mean Millicent—please, please tell me! I do so want to know, and I am only your own little sister, who never did you any harm, and who wants to know so much. Won't you tell me?"
Joanna had slipped down on the floor by her sister's side. One arm she threw across Millicent, the other went under the sofa pillow. In a moment the morocco blank-book was in her hand. She clutched it tightly. If she only dared draw it out, run away with it, and read it! Peggy would have done it without any hesitation whatever, but then Joanna was not Peggy.
Millicent looked at her pensively. Sympathy is pleasant, particularly to a poet, and she felt sure that Joan, if any one, would appreciate some of the beauties of her verse.
"I really believe I will," she said at length; "only, Joan, I don't want Peggy to know anything about it. Peggy does laugh so at everything. Not that there is anything to laugh at in these little poems of mine—for they are real poems, Joan. Do you know I actually write poetry? Did you ever have any idea of it?"
"I am not a bit surprised," declared Joan. "In fact, I was almost sure of it. I am so glad you are going to let me see them. They are in this book, aren't they? Oh, Milly—I mean Millicent—think of your being a poetess! Do hurry up. Shall I read them myself, or will you read them to me?"
"I will read them aloud. I can do it with more expression, probably, for I know just where to put the emphasis, and it makes a great difference in poetry. I often think that if I could only take them myself to the editors of the magazines and read the poems to them, they would be more apt to take them."
"Of course they would. But do you mean to say, Millicent, that you have really sent anything to the magazines?"
"Certainly I have. I want recognition, but somehow they don't seem to suit."