Each year I wait thy coming, dear, Each year I love thee more, For life grows hard, and much I need Thy honey for my store. So, like a hungry bee, I sip Sweet lessons from thy cup, And sitting at a flower's feet, My soul learns to look up. No laurels shall I ever win, No splendid blossoms bear, But gratefully receive and use God's blessed sun and air; And, blooming where my lot is cast Grow happy and content, Making some barren spot more fair, For a humble life well spent. [Illustration: "She wrote it herself!"--PAGE 23.] "She wrote it herself! I can't believe it!" said Emily, as she put down the paper, looking rather startled, for she _did_ believe it, and felt as if she had suddenly looked into a fellow-creature's heart. "I thought her just an ordinary girl, and here she is a poet, writing verses that make me want to cry! I don't suppose they _are_ very good, but they seem to come right out of her heart, and touch me with the longing and the patience or the piety in them. Well, I _am_ surprised!" and Emily read the lines again, seeing the faults more plainly than before, but still feeling that the girl put herself into them, vainly trying to express what the wild flower was to her in the loneliness which comes to those who have a little spark of the divine fire burning in their souls. "Shall I tell her I've found it out? I must! and see if I can't get her verses printed. Of course she has more tucked away somewhere. That is what she hums to herself when she's at work, and won't tell me about when I ask. Sly thing! to be so bashful and hide her gift. I'll tease her a bit and see what she says. Oh dear, I wish _I_ could do it! Perhaps she'll be famous some day, and then I'll have the glory of discovering her." With that consolation Emily turned over the pages of the ledger and found several more bits of verse, some very good for an untaught girl, others very faulty, but all having a certain strength of feeling and simplicity of language unusual in the effusions of young maidens at the sentimental age. Emily had a girlish admiration for talent of any kind, and being fond of poetry, was especially pleased to find that her humble friend possessed the power of writing it. Of course she exaggerated Becky's talent, and as she waited for her, felt sure that she had discovered a feminine Burns among the New Hampshire hills, for all the verses were about natural and homely objects, touched into beauty by sweet words or tender sentiment. She had time to build a splendid castle in the air and settle Becky in it with a crown of glory on her head, before the quiet figure in a faded sunbonnet came slowly up the slope with the glow of sunset on a tired but tranquil face.