rthwhile to think
we can share their inspiration? And then, all the great souls that will
come in the future? Isn't it worthwhile to work a little and prepare the
way for them--make just one step in their path easier?"

"Oh, my mind agrees with you, Anne. But my soul remains doleful and
uninspired. I'm always grubby and dingy on rainy nights."

"Some nights I like the rain--I like to lie in bed and hear it pattering
on the roof and drifting through the pines."

"I like it when it stays on the roof," said Stella. "It doesn't always.
I spent a gruesome night in an old country farmhouse last summer. The
roof leaked and the rain came pattering down on my bed. There was no
poetry in THAT. I had to get up in the 'mirk midnight' and chivy round
to pull the bedstead out of the drip--and it was one of those solid,
old-fashioned beds that weigh a ton--more or less. And then that
drip-drop, drip-drop kept up all night until my nerves just went to
pieces. You've no idea what an eerie noise a great drop of rain falling
with a mushy thud on a bare floor makes in the night. It sounds like
ghostly footsteps and all that sort of thing. What are you laughing
over, Anne?"

"These stories. As Phil would say they are killing--in more senses than
one, for everybody died in them. What dazzlingly lovely heroines
we had--and how we dressed them!

"Silks--satins--velvets--jewels--laces--they never wore anything else.
Here is one of Jane Andrews' stories depicting her heroine as sleeping
in a beautiful white satin nightdress trimmed with seed pearls."

"Go on," said Stella. "I begin to feel that life is worth living as long
as there's a laugh in it."

"Here's one I wrote. My heroine is disporting herself at a ball
'glittering from head to foot with large diamonds of the first water.'
But what booted beauty or rich attire? 'The paths of glory lead but to
the grave.' They must either be murdered or die of a broken heart. There
was no escape for them."

"Let me read some of your stories."

"Well, here's my masterpiece. Note its cheerful title--'My Graves.' I
shed quarts of tears while writing it, and the other girls shed gallons
while I read it. Jane Andrews' mother scolded her frightfully because
she had so many handkerchiefs in the wash that week. It's a harrowing
tale of the wanderings of a Methodist minister's wife. I made her a
Methodist because it was necessary that she should wander. She buried a
child every place she lived in. The