“Why,”—­he moved a little uneasily—­“I really—­don’t know—­” He threw back his head with a little smile.  “To be frank, Miss Polly, I haven’t read them.”

Something flashed into the young face opposite that startled the man.

“Do you mean, Mr. Parcell,” Polly said slowly, “that you have not read the book at all?” Her emphasis made her thought clear, and his cheeks reddened.

“I shall have to own up to my neglect,” he replied.  “You know I am a very busy man, Miss Polly.”

“You needn’t bother with the ‘Miss,’” she answered; “nobody does.  Then, that is why you haven’t said ’thank you’—­you don’t feel ’thank you’!”

“Oh, my dear Polly!  I am very grateful to Miss Twining, I assure you, and I realize that I should have sent her a note of thanks; but—­in fact, I don’t recollect just how it was—­I presume I was waiting until I had read the book, and—­I may as well confess it!—­I was somewhat afraid to read it.”

“Afraid?” Polly looked puzzled.

“Such things are apt to be dreary reading,” he smiled.  “I am rather a crank as regards poetry.”

The flash came again into Polly’s face.  “Oh!” she cried, fine scorn in her voice, “you thought the poems weren’t good!”

He found himself nodding mechanically.

“Where is the book?” she demanded, glancing about the room.

“I—­really don’t know where I did leave it—­” He scanned his cases with a troubled frown.

Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes.  She seemed to see Alice Twining’s gentle, appealing face, as it had looked when she said, “I hope he doesn’t think I am presumptuous in sending it.”  She dashed away the drops, and went on glancing along the rows of books.  The minister had risen, but Polly darted ahead of him and pounced upon a small volume.

“Here it is!” She touched it caressingly, as if to make up for recent neglect.

“Your eyes are quicker than mine,” said Mr. Parcell, taking it from her hand.

“Read it!” she said, and went back to her chair,

The minister obeyed meekly.  Polly’s eyes did not leave him.

He had opened the book at random, and with deepened color and a disturbed countenance had done as he was bidden.  Surprise, pleasure, astonishment, delight,—­all these the watcher saw in the face above the pages.

Five minutes went by, ten, twenty; still the Reverend Norman Parcell read on!  Polly, mouse-quiet, divided her softening gaze between the clergyman and the clock.  The pointers had crept almost to four when the telephone called.  The reader answered.  Then he walked slowly back from the instrument and picked up the book.

“Miss Twining must be a remarkable woman,” he began, “to write such poetry as this—­for it is poetry!”

“She is remarkable,” replied Polly quietly.  “She is finer even than her poems.”

The minister nodded acquiescently.  “This ‘Peter the Great,’” he went on, running over the leaves, “is a marvelous thing!”