vice she dropped her precious diary, and flew to the edge of the
haymow. He never forgot the vision of the startled little
poetess, book in one mittened hand, pencil in the other, dark
hair all ruffled, with the picturesque addition of an occasional
glade of straw, her cheeks crimson, her eyes shining.

"A Sappho in mittens!" he cried laughingly, and at her eager
question told her to look up the unknown lady in the school
encyclopedia, when she was admitted to the Female Seminary at
Wareham.

Now, all being ready, Rebecca went to a corner of the haymow, and
withdrew a thick blank-book with mottled covers. Out of her
gingham apron pocket came a pencil, a bit of rubber, and some
pieces of brown paper; then she seated herself gravely on the
floor, and drew an inverted soapbox nearer to her for a table.

The book was reverently opened, and there was a serious reading
of the extracts already carefully copied therein. Most of them
were apparently to the writer's liking, for dimples of pleasure
showed themselves now and then, and smiles of obvious delight
played about her face; but once in a while there was a knitting
of the brows and a sigh of discouragement, showing that the
artist in the child was not wholly satisfied.

Then came the crucial moment when the budding author was
supposedly to be racked with the throes of composition; but
seemingly there were no throes. Other girls could wield the
darning or crochet or knitting needle, and send the tatting
shuttle through loops of the finest cotton; hemstitch, oversew,