small and wiry and grave, and never spilled anything on the tablecloth
when helping.

"Miss Delia," said Lucyet, "I've written a poem."

Her companion looked at her and smiled a shrewd little smile. "I've
guessed as much before now," she said.

"But," said Lucyet, laying down her knife and fork, "it has been
printed."

"Printed, child!" exclaimed Miss Delia, almost dropping hers. At last
the cup of satisfaction was at Lucyet's lips; at least she had not
overestimated the purport of the event to one human being.

"Printed," repeated Lucyet, smiling softly. "Here it is in the paper."

Miss Delia pushed aside her plate, seized the paper, and, opening it,
searched its columns. She had not to look long; there was but one poem.
Lucyet watched with shining eyes. This is what it meant; this was the
realization of her dreams--to see the reader pass over the rest of the
page as trivial, to be arrested with spellbound interest at the word
"Spring," to know that the words that held that absorbed attention were
her words--her own.

As Miss Delia read, gradually her expression changed; from eagerness it
faded into perplexity. Lucyet watched her breathlessly, her hands
clasped, her thin arms and somewhat angular elbows resting on the coarse
tablecloth. From perplexity Miss Delia's look was chilled into what the
observant girl recognized, with a dull pain at her heart, as
disappointment. Lucyet averted her gaze to a dish of ill-shaped boiled
potatoes; there was no need of watching longer the face opposite. Miss
Delia read it all through again, dwelling on certain lines, which she
indicated by her forefinger, with special attention; then she looked up
timidly. She met Lucyet's unsmiling eyes for a moment; then she, too,
looked away, hurriedly, helplessly, to the dish of boiled potatoes.

"I'm sure it is very nice--very nice indeed, Lucyet," she said.

"But you don't like it," said Lucyet.

"Oh, yes, I do," poor Miss Delia hastened to say. "I do like it; the
rhymes are in the right places, and all, and it looks so nice in the
column." Mechanically she pulled her plate back again, and Lucyet did
the same. "I'm proud of you, Lucyet," she went on with a forced little
smile, "that you can write real poetry like that."

"But what if it isn't real poetry?" said Lucyet.

The doubt was wrung from her by the overwhelming bitterness of her
disappointment. A rush of tears was smarting behind her rather
inexpressive eyes; but she hel