"No--it's a secret. And I've got to hurry up now and hang up the
phone because it's a secret."

"I see. All right, I'll be along in about fifteen minutes. What do
you want me to--"

"Stop by the summerhouse," she cut in nervously. "I'll be there."

It seemed a long time, but in reality was shorter than schedule,
before Young Doc's car appeared up the side street. He brought it to
a stop opposite the summerhouse, jumped out and approached the
rendezvous.

Summoning all her courage, she held the Poem ready in her hand.

"Good morning, Missy," he sang out. "What's all the mystery?"

For answer Missy could only smile--a smile made wan by nervousness--
and extend the two crumpled sheets of paper.

Young Doc took them curiously, smiled at the primly-lettered,
downhill lines, and then narrowed his eyes to skimming absorption. A
strange expression gathered upon his face as he read. Missy didn't
know exactly what to make of his working muscles--whether he was
pained or angry or amused. But she was entirely unprepared for the
fervour with which, when he finished, he seized her by the shoulders
and bounced her up and down.

"Did you make all this up?" he cried. "Or do you mean she really
doesn't want to marry that bounder?"