bad,and I can't bear to show them; I can write poetryeasier and better, Miss Maxwell.""Poetry!" she exclaimed. "Did Miss Dearbornrequire you to do it?""Oh, no; I always did it even at the farm. ShallI bring all I have? It isn't much."Rebecca took the blank-book in which she keptcopies of her effusions and left it at Miss Maxwell'sdoor,cheap furla bags, hoping that she might be asked in and thusobtain a private interview; but a servant answeredher ring, and she could only walk away, disappointed.
銆��A few days afterward she saw the black-coveredbook on Miss Maxwell's desk and knew that thedreaded moment of criticism had come, so she wasnot surprised to be asked to remain after class.
銆��The room was quiet; the red leaves rustled inthe breeze and flew in at the open window, bearingthe first compliments of the season. Miss Maxwellcame and sat by Rebecca's side on the bench.
銆��"Did you think these were good?" she asked,replica furla bags,giving her the verses.
銆��"Not so very," confessed Rebecca; "but it'shard to tell all by yourself. The Perkinses and
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