Deliberately she pulled off her mittens and put them into her pocket; then, with shaking hands and with her face drawn as if in pain, but with her eyes steadily fixed on Molly's face, she slowly tore the paper into long, narrow strips, gathered the strips together and tore them into tiny squares, and defiantly threw them away over the side of the bridge into the swift blue stream below. But even before the first floating square had touched the surface of the water, the reaction had set in, and Polly could have cried for the loss of her first and only poem. For a moment, she gazed after the white bits drifting away from her; then, biting her lip to steady it and struggling to keep back the tears, she turned on her heel, without a word, and walked away towards home, leaving Molly to follow or not, as she chose. The tears came fast now, as she hurried on, avoiding the main streets as best she could. No one was in sight when she reached the house, so she could run up the stairs unnoticed, and throw herself down across the foot of the bed for a long, hearty cry. She had hoped so much from Molly's sympathy! But, after all, now the opportunity had come, the tears were not so ready as they had been, and she did not feel quite so much as if the world had abused her, as she did when she was standing on the bridge, watching the white dots on the river below. At least, no great harm was done, for she remembered the whole poem and could easily write it out again. As this thought came to her, she sprang up once more, seized a pencil and a bit of paper and rewrote the words which had caused her so much joy and so much pain. She was still sitting with her forehead resting on her clasped hands, reading the verses over and over and dreaming of the future day when fame should come to her, when she heard her mother's voice outside. "Polly! Polly! are you there?" "Yes, I'm here," answered Polly, moving across the room to open the door, with a secret hope that her mother would see that she had been crying, and ask the reason of her tears. But Mrs. Adams was too intent on the matter in hand to give more than a passing glance at her daughter. "Polly, Aunt Jane wants you to run down to Mrs. Hapgood's and ask her if she can't take in some ministers next week, over the convention. She would like her to take four, if she can." "Oh dear!" grumbled Polly. "I do wish Aunt Jane would go on her own old errands, and not keep me running all over town for her." "Polly dear," Mrs. Adams's tone was very gentle; "Polly, aren't you forgetting yourself a little?" "No, I'm not," returned Polly rebelliously. "I hate Aunt Jane." "Polly!" This time there was no mistaking her mother's meaning. After an instant, she added,-- "I wish you to go at once, my daughter, and to go pleasantly. Aunt Jane is a good, kind aunt to you." Polly raised her eyebrows, but dared not speak; "and I am sorry you are so ungrateful as not to be willing to do this little errand for her."