"She is not!" Polly burst out indignantly. "It just happened that once. She's got a lovely little horse that she rides, and he's as gentle as can be. She isn't--that! I shouldn't think you'd say such things about my cousin." Polly's voice was tearful. "I d'n' know's cousins are any better 'n other folks," he growled. "Oh, David!" she protested. Then her face suddenly lighted. "You're not afraid I'll think more of her than I do of you, are you? David, is that it?" as he did not answer. "Why, David Collins," she went on, the words tumbling out tempestuously, "how foolish you are! I couldn't! You ought to know! There we were at the hospital together for so long, till it seemed just like one family, and Colonel Gresham your uncle, and all! Why, David, I don't see what makes you feel so! You never did about Leonora." "That's different," he mumbled. "You didn't run off with her, and leave me to tag!" "Why, I don't! I want you to come, too! Patricia thinks you're so nice--she said so." "She doesn't know me." "Enough to like you. I thought we could be friends all together." The tone was plaintive. "Well," he conceded. "You know I like you, David, and always shall, no matter how many other friends I have. It was lovely of you to wait for me to-night and to go and tell Miss Cordelia about it--I never shall forget that!" They had reached the home cottage, and were passing up the walk. "I guess I wanted to be a monopolist," confessed David. "A what?" cried Polly. David's long words often puzzled her. He laughed. "Oh, I wanted you all to myself!" he explained. "I'm a pig anyway!" "No, you're not!" declared Polly. He turned quickly. "Good-night! I'll be on hand to-morrow morning." And Polly knew that David had been won over. True to his promise, he called early for his old chum, and accompanied her and Patricia to school, showing only the merry, winsome side of his nature, and making Polly proud to own him for a friend. In the hallway the boys laid hold of him, and carried him off upstairs, where a group of lads, with heads together, whispering and snickering, surrounded one of the desks. "What are they up to?" queried Patricia, watching them furtively. "Vance Alden is reading something from a piece of paper--hear them laugh!" "Poetry, probably," guessed Polly. "He's the greatest boy for writing poetry. He wrote his composition, one week, all in rhyme." At recess the secret was soon made known. A long row of boys, arm in arm, marched across the recitation room, singing this bit of doggerel:-- "Ilga Barron, The great fan_fa_ron, Went into the closet one day; But she was so stout She couldn't get out, And there she had to sta-ay! And there she had to stay!"