know the doctor warned you to be more regular about eating.
Whenever you work so intensely, you always pay for it in exhaustion the
next day. Do come now and finish the essay later."

The rumpled head bent still lower. "I wouldn't drop this now for thirty
dinners or suppers. It's good--it's fine--it's bound to be accepted--it
means the editorship. To sacrifice it for dinner! Do go away. I wish you
would leave me alone."

Laura turned away silently. If the success of the article was in
question, she certainly could not interfere further. Lucine wrote on,
paying no heed to the gong except for the tribute of an impatient frown
at the sound of many feet clicking past in the corridor, with a rustling
of skirts and light chat of voices. At seven when the bell for chapel
again filled the halls with murmur and movement, she only shrugged
uneasily and scribbled faster. By half-past she had finished and was
re-reading it for final corrections. Then folding it with a smile of
weary contentment, for at last she knew that it was sure of success, she
set out to carry it to the magazine sanctum.

Down the stairs and through the lower corridor she hastened toward the
plain wooden door whose key she hoped next year to claim for her own
fingers. The transom shone dark, and no voice yet disturbed the quiet of
the neighborhood. Evidently the editorial board had not yet begun to
assemble for the business session. Lucine decided to wait till they
arrived, so as to be certain that the precious essay reached their hands
in safety. If she should drop it through the letter slit in the door, it
might be overlooked.

Curling up on a window ledge in a shadowy corner behind a wardrobe she
waited while dreamily gazing at the moon which was sailing through clouds
tossed by the still rollicking wind. Ever since her first glimpse of the
magazine's brown covers, she had determined to become editor-in-chief
some time. Now this essay would surely be accepted, and when printed this
month would render her eligible for election as the first sophomore
editor. From that position she would advance to the literary editorship
next year, and then to be chief of the staff when she was a senior.
Then--ah, then the girls would be eager and proud to be friends with her.
And Laura would be glad she had not forsaken her in her early struggles.
So far she had been too busy with her writing to make friends and keep
them. It took so much time and was such a bother to be