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It was impossible to resist such persuasive words, and Becky soon yielded to the little siren who was luring her out of her safe, small pool into the deeper water that looks so blue and smooth till the venturesome paper boats get into the swift eddies, or run aground upon the rocks and sandbars.

The greatest secrecy was to be preserved, and no one but Mrs. Spenser was to know what a momentous enterprise was afoot. The girls sat absorbed in their brilliant plans till it was nearly dark, then groped their way home hand in hand, leaving another secret for the laurels to keep and dream over through their long sleep, for blossom time was past, and the rosy faces turning pale in the July sun.

Neither of the girls forgot the talk they had that night in Emily’s room, for she led her captive straight to her mother, and told her all their plans and aspirations without a moment’s delay.

Mrs. Spenser much regretted her daughter’s well-meant enthusiasm, but fearing harm might be done, very wisely tried to calm the innocent excitement of both by the quiet matter-of-fact way in which she listened to the explanation Emily gave her, read the verses timidly offered by Becky, and then said, kindly but firmly:–

“This is not poetry, my dear girls, though the lines run smoothly enough, and the sentiment is sweet. It would bring neither fame nor money, and Rebecca puts more real truth, beauty, and poetry into her dutiful daily life than in any lines she has written.”

“We had such a lovely plan for Becky to come to town with me, and see the world, and write, and be famous. How can you spoil it all?”

“My foolish little daughter, I must prevent you from spoiling this good girl’s life by your rash projects. Becky will see that I am wise, though you do not, and SHE will understand this verse from my favorite poet, and lay it to heart:–

“So near is grandeur to our Dust,
So nigh is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, ‘Thou must!’
The youth replies, ‘I can!'”

“I do! I will! please go on,” and Becky’s troubled eyes grew clear and steadfast as she took the words home to herself, resolving to live up to them.

“Oh, mother!” cried Emily, thinking her very cruel to nip their budding hopes in this way.

“I know you won’t believe it now, nor be able to see all that I mean perhaps, but time will teach you both to own that I am right, and to value the substance more than the shadow,” continued Mrs. Spenser. “Many girls write verses and think they are poets; but it is only a passing mood, and fortunately for the world, and for them also, it soon dies out in some more genuine work or passion. Very few have the real gift, and those to whom it IS given wait and work and slowly reach the height of their powers. Many delude themselves, and try to persuade the world that they can sing; but it is waste of time, and ends in disappointment, as the mass of sentimental rubbish we all see plainly proves. Write your little verses, my dear, when the spirit moves,–it is a harmless pleasure, a real comfort, and a good lesson for you; but do not neglect higher duties or deceive yourself with false hopes and vain dreams. ‘First live, then write,’ is a good motto for ambitious young people. A still better for us all is, ‘Do the duty that lies nearest;’ and the faithful performance of that, no matter how humble it is, will be the best help for whatever talent may lie hidden in us, ready to bloom when the time comes. Remember this, and do not let my enthusiastic girl’s well-meant but unwise prophecies and plans unsettle you, and unfit you for the noble work you are doing.”