that—and ‘An Address to a Buttercup.’ I composed it to-day and it is my—my masterpiece.”
“Let’s hear it,” ordered Ilse.
Nothing loth, Emily proudly repeated her lines. Somehow she did not mind letting Ilse hear them.
“Emily Byrd Starr, you didn’t make that out of your own head?”
“I did.”
“Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Well”—Ilse drew a long breath—“I guess you are a poetess all right.”
It was a very proud moment for Emily—one of the great moments of life, in fact. Her world had conceded her standing. But now other things had to be thought of. The storm was over and the sun had set. It was twilight—it would soon be dark. She must get home and back into the spare-room before her absence was discovered. It was dreadful to think of going back but she must do it lest a worse thing come upon her at Aunt Elizabeth’s hands. Just now, under the inspiration of Ilse’s personality, she was full of Dutch courage. Besides, it would soon be her bedtime and she would be let out. She trotted home through Lofty John’s bush, that was full of the wandering, mysterious lamps of the fireflies, dodged cautiously through the balm-of-gileads—and stopped short in dismay. The ladder was gone!
Emily went around to the kitchen door, feeling that she was going straight to her doom. But for once the way of the transgressor was made sinfully easy. Aunt Laura was alone in the kitchen.
“Emily dear, where on earth did you come from?” she exclaimed. “I was just going up to let you out. Elizabeth said I might—she’s gone to prayer-meeting.”
Aunt Laura did not say that she had tiptoed several times to the spare-room door and had been racked with anxiety over the silence behind it. Was the child uncon-
