eep the story out of the paper. They generally have
such splendid excuses for not wanting a story published. I never paid
any attention to them, though. I turned in every story I ever ran down,"
she concluded, her small face setting in harsh lines.

"But didn't that make some of the people about whom the stories were
written very unhappy?" asked Miriam pointedly.

"I suppose so," answered Kathleen. "But I never stopped to bother about
them. I had to think of myself and of my paper."

"How long have you known Mabel Ashe?" asked Grace, abruptly changing the
subject. Something in the cold indifference of Kathleen's voice jarred
on her.

"Just since she appeared on the paper," returned Kathleen unconcernedly.
"She is very pretty, isn't she? But prettiness alone doesn't count for
much on a newspaper. Can she make good? That is the question. She
imagines that journalism is her vocation, but I am afraid she is going
to be sadly disillusioned. She seems to be a clever girl, though."

"Clever," repeated Grace with peculiar emphasis. "She is the cleverest
girl we know. While she was at Overton, she was the life of the college.
Everyone loved her. I can't begin to tell you how much we miss her."

"It's very nice to be missed, I am sure," said Kathleen hastily,
retreating from what appeared to be dangerous ground. "I hope I shall be
eulogized when I have graduated from Overton."

"That will depend largely on your behavior as a freshman," drawled
Elfreda.

"What do you mean?" asked Kathleen sharply. "I thought freshmen were of
the least importance in college."

"So they are to the other classes," returned Elfreda. "They are of the
greatest importance to themselves, however, and if they make false
starts during their freshman year it is likely to handicap them through
the other three."

"Much obliged for the information," declared Kathleen flippantly. "I'll
try not to make any false starts. Good gracious! It is half-past ten. I
had no idea it was so late. I've had a lovely time at your tea party.
I'm going to send out invitations for a social gathering before long."
She rose lazily to her feet, and carefully set her cup on the table. "I
suppose Miss Ainslee will be sound asleep," she remarked, yawning.
"Lighting the gas will awaken her and she will be cross. She goes to bed
with the chickens."

"Don't light it, then," suggested Grace. "You can see to undress with
the blind up. There is full moon to-night."

"Why should