“She wrote it herself!  I can’t believe it!” said Emily, as she put down the paper, looking rather startled, for she did believe it, and felt as if she had suddenly looked into a fellow-creature’s heart.  “I thought her just an ordinary girl, and here she is a poet, writing verses that make me want to cry!  I don’t suppose they are very good, but they seem to come right out of her heart, and touch me with the longing and the patience or the piety in them.  Well, I am surprised!” and Emily read the lines again, seeing the faults more plainly than before, but still feeling that the girl put herself into them, vainly trying to express what the wild flower was to her in the loneliness which comes to those who have a little spark of the divine fire burning in their souls.

“Shall I tell her I’ve found it out?  I must! and see if I can’t get her verses printed.  Of course she has more tucked away somewhere.  That is what she hums to herself when she’s at work, and won’t tell me about when I ask.  Sly thing! to be so bashful and hide her gift.  I’ll tease her a bit and see what she says.  Oh dear, I wish I could do it!  Perhaps she’ll be famous some day, and then I’ll have the glory of discovering her.”

With that consolation Emily turned over the pages of the ledger and found several more bits of verse, some very good for an untaught girl, others very faulty, but all having a certain strength of feeling and simplicity of language unusual in the effusions of young maidens at the sentimental age.

Emily had a girlish admiration for talent of any kind, and being fond of poetry, was especially pleased to find that her humble friend possessed the power of writing it.  Of course she exaggerated Becky’s talent, and as she waited for her, felt sure that she had discovered a feminine Burns among the New Hampshire hills, for all the verses were about natural and homely objects, touched into beauty by sweet words or tender sentiment.  She had time to build a splendid castle in the air and settle Becky in it with a crown of glory on her head, before the quiet figure in a faded sunbonnet came slowly up the slope with the glow of sunset on a tired but tranquil face.

“Sit here and have a good rest, while I talk to you,” said Emily, eager to act the somewhat dramatic scene she had planned.  Becky sunk upon the red cushion prepared for her, and sat looking down at the animated speaker, as Emily, perched on a mossy stone before her, began the performance.

“Becky, did you ever hear of the Goodale children?  They lived in the country and wrote poetry and grew to be famous.”

“Oh yes, I’ve read their poems and like ’em very much.  Do you know ’em?” and Becky looked interested at once.

“No, but I once met a girl who was something like them, only she didn’t have such an easy time as they did, with a father to help, and a nice Sky-farm, and good luck generally.  I’ve tried to write verses myself, but I always get into a muddle, and give it up.  This makes me interested in other girls who can do it, and I want to help my friend.  I’m sure she has talent, and I’d so like to give her a lift in some way.  Let me read you a piece of hers and see what you think of it.”