was feeling uplifted. There had been another thin letter in the mail that day, with the address of a third-rate magazine in the corner, offering her three subscriptions to the said magazine for her poem Night in the Garden, which had formed the conclusion of her Garden Book and was considered both by herself and Cousin Jimmy to be the gem of the volume. Emily had left the Garden Book locked up in the mantel cupboard of her room at New Moon, but she meant to send copies of its “tail pieces” to various publications during the fall. It augured well that the first one sent had been accepted so promptly.
“Well, we’re off,” she said, “‘over the hills and far away’—what an alluring old phrase! Anything may be beyond those hills ahead of us.”
“I hope we'll get lots of material for our essays,” said Ilse practically.
Principal Hardy had informed the Junior English class that he would require several essays from them during the fall term and Emily and Ilse had decided that one at least of their essays should recount their experiences in canvassing for subscriptions, from their separate points of view. Thus they had two strings to their bow.
“I suggest we work along the Western Road and its branches as far as Hunter’s Creek, tonight,” said Emily. “We ought to get there by sunset. Then we can hit the gypsy trail across the country, through the Malvern woods and come out on the other side of them, quite near Wiltney. It’s only half an hour’s walk, while around by the Malvern Road it’s an hour. What a lovely afternoon this is!”
It was a lovely afternoon—such an afternoon as only September can produce when summer has stolen back for one more day of dream and glamour. Harvest fields drenched in sunshine lay all around them: the austere charm of northern firs made wonderful the ways over which they walked: goldenrod beribboned the fences and the sacrificial fires of willow-herb were kindled on all
