Florence consoled herself.  During the week she dropped in on all the members of “the family”—­her grandfather, uncles and aunts and cousins, her great-aunts and great-uncles—­and in each instance, after no protracted formal preliminaries, lightly remarked that she wrote poetry now; her first to appear in the forthcoming Oriole.  And when Great-Aunt Carrie said, “Why, Florence, you’re wonderful!  I couldn’t write a poem to save my life.  I never could see how they do it,” Florence laughed, made a deprecatory little side motion with her head, and responded, “Why, Aunt Carrie, that’s nothing!  It just kind of comes to you.”

This also served as her explanation when some of her school friends expressed their admiration, after being told the news in confidence; though to one of the teachers she said, smiling ruefully, as in remembrance of midnight oil, “It does take work, of course!”

* * * * *

When opportunity offered, upon the street, she joined people she knew (or even rather distant acquaintances) to walk with them a little way and lead the conversation to the subject of poetry, including her own contribution to that art.  Altogether, if Florence was not in a fair way to become a poetic celebrity it was not her own fault but entirely that of The North End Daily Oriole, which was to make its appearance on Saturday, but failed to do so on account of too much enthusiasm on the part of Atwater & Rooter in manipulating the printing-press.  It broke, had to be repaired; and Florence, her nerves upset by the accident, demanded her money back.  This was impossible, and the postponement proved to be but an episode; moreover, it gave her time to let more people know of the treat that was coming.

Among these was Noble Dill.  Until the Friday following her disappointment she had found no opportunity to acquaint her Very Ideal with the news; and but for an encounter partly due to chance, he might not have heard of it.  A sentimental enrichment of colour in her cheeks was the result of her catching sight of him, as she was on the point of opening and entering her own front door, that afternoon, on her return from school.  He was passing the house, walking somewhat dreamily.

Florence stepped into the sheltering vestibule, peeping round it with earnest eyes to watch him as he went by; obviously he had taken no note of her.  Satisfied of this, she waited until he was at a little distance, then ran lightly down to the gate, hurried after him and joined him.

“Why, Mr. Dill!” she exclaimed, in her mother’s most polished manner.  “How supprising to see you!  I presume as we both happen to be walking the same direction we might just’s well keep together.”

“Surprising to see me?” Noble said vaguely.  “I haven’t been away anywhere in particular, Florence.”  Then, at a thought, he brightened.  “I’m glad to see you, Florence.  Do you know if any of your family or relatives have heard when your Aunt Julia is coming home?”