ympathy 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."

"How hateful!" exclaimed Joan, with a sympathy that warmed her sister's
heart. "But do hurry up and read them. I am dying to hear what you have
written."

Millicent opened the book and turned over the pages. She could not quite
decide which she should choose as her first selection. Before she had
made it, however, there was a tap at the door, and then, without waiting
for a reply, a tall girl of sixteen came into the room.

Again the morocco-bound book went under the sofa pillow, and Joanna
could not suppress an exclamation of disappointment.

"What's the matter? What's up?" said their cousin Peggy, glancing
quickly from one to the other. "Secrets? Now that's not a bit fair, to
have secrets from me. I've got oceans of things to talk about; but,
first of all, I met the postman just as I was coming in, and he gave me
this for you, Mill. This huge envelope, and addressed in your own
handwriting. It's awfully mysterious, and I am just about wild with
curiosity. You must tell me what it is."

A blank look came over Millicent's face, but she took the letter and
said nothing.

"Oh, come, now, aren't you going to tell us?" continued Peggy. "I'll
never tell."

"Do, Millicent!" urged Joanna. "If