_The Poor Lady_?" said Margaret. Her eyes glittered, and
her lips tightened. Envy possessed her, but Annie Eustace did not
recognise envy when she saw it.

Annie went on in her sweet ringing voice, almost producing the effect
of a song. She was so happy, and so pleased to think that she was
making her friend happy.

"Yes," she said, "I wrote it. I wrote _The Poor Lady_."

"If," said Margaret, "you speak quite so loud, you will be heard by
others."

Annie lowered her voice immediately with a startled look. "Oh," she
whispered. "I would not have anybody hear me for anything."

"How did you manage?" asked Margaret.

Annie laughed happily. "I fear I have been a little deceitful," she
said, "but I am sure they will forgive me when they know. I keep a
journal; I have always kept one since I was a child. Aunt Harriet
wished me to do so. And the journal was very stupid. So little
unusual happens here in Fairbridge, and I have always been rather
loath to write very much about my innermost feelings or very much
about my friends in my journal because of course one can never tell
what will happen. It has never seemed to me quite delicate--to keep a
very full journal, and so there was in reality very little to write."
Annie burst into a peal of laughter. "It just goes this way, the
journal," she said. "To-day is pleasant and warm. This morning I
helped Hannah preserve cherries. In the afternoon I went over to
Margaret's and sat with her on the verandah, embroidered two daisies
and three leaves with stems on my centre piece, came home, had
supper, sat in the twilight with Grandmother, Aunt Harriet and Aunt
Susan. Went upstairs, put on my wrapper and read until it was time to
go to bed. Went to bed. Now that took very little time and was not
interesting and so, after I went upstairs, I wrote my entry in the
journal in about five minutes and then I wrote _The Poor Lady_. Of
course, when I began it, I was not at all sure that it would amount
to anything. I was not sure that any publisher would look at it.
Sometimes I felt as if I were doing a very foolish thing: spending
time and perhaps deceiving Grandmother and my aunts very wickedly,
though I was quite certain that if the book should by any chance
succeed, they would not think it wrong.

"Grandmother is very fond of books and so is Aunt Harriet, and I have
often heard them say they wished I had been a boy in order that I
might do something for the Eustace name. You know the