She threw the last word back over her shoulder as she went darting away, followed by Polly who soon passed her, laughing and breathless. In the middle of the long, white bridge she stopped and looked about her, struck by the beauty of the familiar scene around, the soft hills at the north, the shining, river as it wound along through the russet meadow grass, and cut its way between the southern mountains, over which slowly flitted the clouds above. A few belated crows rose and sank down again over the deserted corn-fields, while, from the red house on the river bank, the great black dog barked an answer to their hoarse cries. No other living thing was in sight as Molly joined her friend, and they stood leaning against the iron rail, with their backs turned to the cutting wind that came down upon them from the northern hills. "Now, Polly." And Molly paused expectantly. From rosy red, Polly's face grew very white, and her breath came short and hurried. She hesitated for an instant, then plunged her mittened hand into her coat pocket, and pulled out a dingy sheet of paper whose folds, worn till they were transparent, showed the marks of long service. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out, tearing it a little, in her excitement. Then she turned to Molly. "Now, Molly Hapgood," she said solemnly; "will you promise never to tell, if I tell you something that there doesn't anybody else know, that I've never even shown to mamma?" "Go on, Polly!" urged her friend impatiently, trying to steal a glance at the worn-out sheet, which was covered with Polly's irregular, childish writing. But Polly edged cautiously away. "Now remember," she said again; "you're the only single soul in the world that knows this, Molly; and I am telling you my secret because I know you love me. I've--" there was a catch in her breath--"I've written a poem!" "Really!" And Molly's eyes grew round with astonishment and respectful awe. "Yes," Polly went on more calmly, now the great secret was out; "I knew I could, and it was just as easy as could be." "How did you ever know how?" inquired Molly, with a vague idea that she had never before appreciated this gifted friend. "I didn't know how, at first," answered Polly, kindly exposing her methods of work to her friend's gaze. "I just knew that there ought to be some rhymes, and then I must say something or other to fill up the lines. One Sunday in church I read lots of hymns,-- Aunt Jane wasn't there, you know,--and then I went to work." "Are you going to have it printed?" asked Molly. "Not yet," said Polly. "I thought at first I would send it to the _News_, but I've a better plan. I'm going to copy it all out, and write my name on it and my age and how I came to write it, and put it away. After I'm dead and famous, somebody will find it, and it will be printed. Then people will make a fuss over it and call me a child prodigy and all sorts of nice things."