Polly choked down her rising sobs.

"Very well," she said, through her clenched teeth. "This is all I
want of you, Molly Hapgood."

Deliberately she pulled off her mittens and put them into her
pocket; then, with shaking hands and with her face drawn as if in
pain, but with her eyes steadily fixed on Molly's face, she slowly
tore the paper into long, narrow strips, gathered the strips
together and tore them into tiny squares, and defiantly threw them
away over the side of the bridge into the swift blue stream below.
But even before the first floating square had touched the surface
of the water, the reaction had set in, and Polly could have cried
for the loss of her first and only poem. For a moment, she gazed
after the white bits drifting away from her; then, biting her lip
to steady it and struggling to keep back the tears, she turned on
her heel, without a word, and walked away towards home, leaving
Molly to follow or not, as she chose.

The tears came fast now, as she hurried on, avoiding the main
streets as best she could. No one was in sight when she reached
the house, so she could run up the stairs unnoticed, and throw
herself down across the foot of the bed for a long, hearty cry.
She had hoped so much from Molly's sympathy! But, after all, now
the opportunity had come, the tears were not so ready as they had
been, and she did not feel quite so much as if the world had
abused her, as she did when she was standing on the bridge,
watching the white dots on the river below. At least, no great
harm was done, for she remembered the whole poem and could easily
write it out again. As this thought came to her, she sprang up