. Parcell, she is a very dear friend." Her lip quivered,
and she shook herself mentally; she was not going to break down at
this juncture. She went quickly on, ahead of the phrase of sympathy
on its way to the minister's lips. "She lives at the June Holiday
Home."

"Oh, yes! I remember! Her illness is not serious, I hope."

"I am afraid so," returned Polly, passing quickly toward what she
had come to talk about. "I don't suppose you know what a beautiful
woman she is." She looked straight into his eyes, and waited.

"No," he answered slowly, a suggestion of doubt in his tone, "I
presume not. I have seen her only occasionally."

"She told me that you called upon her every year or two." Polly
hesitated. "You can judge something by her poems. You received
the book of poems she sent you?"

"Oh, yes!" he brightened. "I have the book."

"How do you like it, Mr. Parcell? Don't you think the poems
wonderful?" Polly was sitting very straight in the cushioned
chair, her brown eyes fixed keenly on the minister's face.

"Why,"--he moved a little uneasily--"I really--don't know--" He
threw back his head with a little smile. "To be frank, Miss Polly,
I haven't read them."

Something flashed into the young face opposite that startled the
man.

"Do you mean, Mr. Parcell," Polly said slowly, "that you have not
read the book at all?" Her emphasis made her thought clear, and
his cheeks reddened.

"I shall have to own up to my neglect," he replied. "You know I am
a very busy man, Miss Polly."

"You needn't bother with the 'Miss,'" she answered; "nobody does.
Then, that is why you haven't said 'thank you'--you don't feel
'thank you'!"

"Oh, my dear Polly! I am very grateful to Miss Twining, I assure
you, and I realize that I should have sent her a note of thanks;
but--in fact, I don't recollect just how it was--I presume I was
waiting until I had read the book, and--I may as well confess
it!--I was somewhat afraid to read it."

"Afraid?" Polly looked puzzled.

"Such things are apt to be dreary reading," he smiled. "I am
rather a crank as regards poetry."

The flash came again into Polly's face. "Oh!" she cried, fine scorn
in her voice, "you thought the poems weren't good!"

He found himself nodding mechanically.

"Where is the book?" she demanded, glancing about the room.

"I--really don't know where I did leave it--" He scanned his cases
with a troubled frown.

Tears sprang to the girl's eyes.