she to you?” she said to Nora, as they made the descent from the Fort to the road below. “I’m not sure whether I like it or not; it seems strange that she should be able to write like that. Why, those poems sounded good enough to print, did n’t they?”
“Why, yes, I’m not sure but they did,” replied Nora: “but then, I don’t suppose that we are judges.”
“I don’t see why not. We ’ve always read a lot of poetry, and I’m sure, Nora, that you know ever so many pieces to recite. I ’ve often heard you.”
“I suppose that’s why Amy has such a stand-off way with her. A person who writes poetry must feel a little different from others.”
“Hurry up, girls, I see the car coming, and it may wait only a minute before turning round,” cried Amy from below, in a voice that was thoroughly practical and matter-of-fact,—even if its possessor was also a writer of poetry.
The car waited for them a second or two, and the four friends took their places on a front seat. “I think that I ’ve been in St. Michael’s Church,” said Brenda. “We came over to service once, a year or two ago, but I did n’t think particularly about the church. I remember that mamma said something about its being old, but I did not realize then the importance of knowing so much about everything historic,” and she made a low bow to Julia and Amy.
“Well, it really is picturesque,” returned Amy, “and altogether worth seeing.
