At the mention of the workbag, Phronsie had gently pulled Polly's arm. But
Polly was too deep in thought to notice, and she wrinkled her brows, and
bent her head again in her hands. What could it possibly be that Clem was
to make?

"Well, I think it is a sachet bag, then," she said at last.

"An old sachet bag, when all the girls are making oceans of 'em! I should
think you'd be perfectly ashamed, Polly Pepper, to sit there and guess such
things. I'm going to make a most beautiful, embroidered handkerchief case,
with little violets all----"

"Why, you can't, Clem Forsythe!" Polly flew to her feet, sending the ribbon
box flying, and nearly oversetting Phronsie. "You ought not to do any such
thing," she ran on passionately, a little red spot coming on either cheek,
"when you know it'll be just like mine. It would be too mean for anything."

"It won't be just like it," said Clem, twisting uncomfortably, and not
looking up into Polly's face, "for mine is to be a wreath, and yours is a
bunch."

"But it'll be the same thing," cried Polly, too angry to think what she was
saying, "and you're perfectly mean and hateful to copy mine."

"Polly," cried Phronsie, in a distressed little voice. She had gotten up to
her feet, and now hurried over to hold Polly's gown. "Oh, don't, Polly,
don't!"

"Go away," commanded Polly, angrily twitching her gown free; "you don't
know what you are doing, Phronsie, to stop me. She's gone and chosen the