“Surely your friends would buy it!” cried Polly.

“I don’t know whether they did or not—­I didn’t mean that.  I mean, giving away my books—­that was the heart-breaking part!”

“I don’t understand.  Miss Twining.”

“Before it was published—­years before,” went on the little woman reminiscently, “I used to think that if I ever did have books to give to my friends, how beautiful it would be!  I thought it all out from beginning to end—­the end as I saw it!  I wrote inscriptions by the dozen long before the book was even planned.  It looked to me the most exquisite pleasure to give to my friends the work of my own brain, and I pictured their joy of receiving!” She gave a short laugh.

“But, Miss Twining, you don’t mean—­you can’t mean—­that they didn’t like it!”

“Oh, a few did!  But I never heard from many that had read it—­that’s the trouble!  Almost everybody thanked me before reading the book at all.  When they wrote again they probably didn’t think of it.  One man even forgot that I had given him a copy!  The funny part was that at the time he had praised the verses.  Then afterwards he told me that he had never seen my book, but should so like to read it.  I was dumfounded!  I believe I laughed.  In a moment the truth dawned upon him, and he fairly fell over himself with apologies!  I made light of his blunder, but of course it hurt.”

“How could he!  He must have been a queer man!”

“Oh, no! he was very nice, only he didn’t care enough about me or the verses to remember.  I have never seen him since.  But what grieved me most of all,” Miss Twining went on, “was to send books to friends—­or those I called so—­and never receive even a thank-you in return.”

“Oh, nobody could—!”

“Yes, more than once that happened—­more than twice!”

“It doesn’t seem possible!” Polly’s face expressed her sympathy.

“I don’t think I required too much,” Miss Twining went on.  “I didn’t want people to pour out a punch bowl of flattery.  But just a word of appreciation—­of my thought of them, even if they didn’t care for my verses.  Oh, it is heart-breaking business, this giving away books!”

“I should have thought it was about the most delightful thing,” mused Polly soberly.

“It may be with some writers.  Perhaps my experience is exceptional—­I hope so.  It took away nearly all the pleasure of having a book.  Of course a few friends said just the right thing in the right way and said it so simply that I believe they meant what they said.  I never felt that my work was anything wonderful.  I did my best always, and I was happy when any one saw in it something to like and took the trouble to tell me so—­that was all.”

“I should think that was little enough for any author to expect,” said Polly.  “I always supposed authors had a jolly good time, with everybody praising their work.  I never saw anything of yours—­I guess I should like it.  I love poetry!”