sins,
her great-aunts and great-uncles--and in each instance, after no
protracted formal preliminaries, lightly remarked that she wrote poetry
now; her first to appear in the forthcoming _Oriole_. And when
Great-Aunt Carrie said, "Why, Florence, you're wonderful! I couldn't
write a poem to save my life. I never _could_ see how they do it,"
Florence laughed, made a deprecatory little side motion with her head,
and responded, "Why, Aunt Carrie, that's nothing! It just kind of comes
to you."

This also served as her explanation when some of her school friends
expressed their admiration, after being told the news in confidence;
though to one of the teachers she said, smiling ruefully, as in
remembrance of midnight oil, "It _does_ take work, of course!"

* * * * *

When opportunity offered, upon the street, she joined people she knew
(or even rather distant acquaintances) to walk with them a little way
and lead the conversation to the subject of poetry, including her own
contribution to that art. Altogether, if Florence was not in a fair way
to become a poetic celebrity it was not her own fault but entirely that
of _The North End Daily Oriole_, which was to make its appearance on
Saturday, but failed to do so on account of too much enthusiasm on the
part of Atwater & Rooter in manipulating the printing-press. It broke,
had to be repaired; and Florence, her nerves upset by the accident,
demanded her money back. This was impossible, and the postponement
proved to be but an episode; moreover, it gave her time to let more
people know of the treat that was coming.

Among these was Noble Dill. Until the Friday following her
disappointment she had found no opportunity to acquaint her Very Ideal
with the news; and but for an encounter partly due to chance, he might
not have heard of it. A sentimental enrichment of colour in her cheeks
was the result of her catching sight of him, as she was on the point of
opening and entering her own front door, that afternoon, on her return
from school. He was passing the house, walking somewhat dreamily.

Florence stepped into the sheltering vestibule, peeping round it with
earnest eyes to watch him as he went by; obviously he had taken no note
of her. Satisfied of this, she waited until he was at a little distance,
then ran lightly down to the gate, hurried after him and joined him.

"Why, Mr. Dill!" she exclaimed, in her mother's most polished manner.
"How s