declare that, if Molly once pronounced anything queer, its
reputation was spoiled, as far as her hearers were concerned. This
time Jean upheld her.

"It is very poky," she announced, as she pulled a bit of hair out
from one of the holes in the cushion, and fell to picking it to
pieces. "I think it's too warm weather for it, Polly. I don't care
what Aunt Jane says; I'm not going to waste these glorious summer
days over such stuff." And she pointed disdainfully at the book, a
square, clumsy volume, bound in dingy black cloth covers.

Polly looked rather hurt.

"I know all that, girls," she began; "but an hour a day, and only
every other day, too, isn't very much to spend on it."

"It's an hour too much, though, Polly," said Molly decisively.
"This garret is so warm; wait till cooler weather, and then we'll
try again. We shouldn't have time to finish it, anyway, before
Jean had the play ready for us. How is it getting along, Jean?"

"Awfully!" confessed Jean. "Whenever I sit down to write, my head
is as empty as an egg is, after you've blown it."

"Now, you girls let me plan for you," said Alan, moved to pity by
Polly's downcast face. "You let your old book go till fall, and
then start again, but only read half an hour a day. That's all
your brains can take in, and I'll try to be on hand to explain it
to you. How does that suit, Poll?"