Florence was momentarily discouraged; but at her age people usually possess an invaluable faculty, which they lose later in life; and it is a pity that they do lose it.  At thirteen—­especially the earlier months of thirteen—­they are still able to set aside and dismiss from their minds almost any facts, no matter how audibly those facts have asked for recognition.  Children superbly allow themselves to become deaf, so to speak, to undesirable circumstances; most frequently, of course, to undesirable circumstances in the way of parental direction; so that fathers, mothers, nurses, or governesses, not comprehending that this mental deafness is for the time being entirely genuine, are liable to hoarseness both of throat and temper.  Thirteen is an age when the fading of this gift or talent, one of the most beautiful of childhood, begins to impair its helpfulness under the mistaken stress of discipline; but Florence retained something of it.  In a moment or two Noble Dill’s disaffection toward poetry was altogether as if it did not exist.

She coughed, inclined her head a little to one side, in her mother’s manner of politeness to callers, and, repeating her deprecatory laugh, remarked:  “Well, of course it’s kind of a funny question for me to ask, of course.”

“What is, Florence?” Noble inquired absently.

“Well—­what I was saying was that ‘course it’s sort of queer me askin’ if you liked poetry, of course, on account of my writing poetry the way I do now.”

She looked up at him with a bright readiness to respond modestly to whatever exclamation his wonder should dictate; but Noble’s attention had straggled again.

“Has she written your mother lately?” he asked.

Florence’s expression denoted a mental condition slightly disturbed.  “No,” she said.  “It’s goin’ to be printed in The North End Daily Oriole.”

“What?”

“My poem.  It’s about a vast amen—­anyhow, that’s proba’ly the best thing in it, I guess—­and they’re goin’ to have it out to-morrow, or else they’ll have to settle with me; that’s one thing certain!  I’ll bring one over to your house and leave it at the door for you, Mr. Dill.”

Noble had but a confused notion of what she thus generously promised.  However, he said, “Thank you,” and nodded vaguely.

“Of course, I don’t know as it’s so awful good,” Florence admitted insincerely.  “The family all seem to think it’s something pretty much; but I don’t know if it is or not. Really, I don’t!”

“No,” said Noble, still confused.  “I suppose not.”

“I’m half way through another one I think myself’ll be a good deal better.  I’m not goin’ as fast with it as I did with the other one, and I expect it’ll be quite a ways ahead of this one.”  She again employed the deprecatory little laugh.  “I don’t know how I do it, myself.  The family all think it’s sort of funny I don’t know how I do it, myself; but that’s the way it is.  They all say if they could do it they’re sure they’d know how they did it; but I guess they’re wrong.  I presume if you can do it, why, it just comes to you.  Don’t you presume that’s the way it is, Mr. Dill?”