ounger Miss Waddle, gathering up her manuscript in
a heap, "that you couldn't write a story. You couldn't, I suppose?"

"I am afraid not," Norine replied, smiling. "I am not at all clever in
any way. I only wish I could write stories and earn money as you do."

"Yes, it's very nice and handy," said the younger Miss Waddle, "when
you're not 'respectfully declined.' _I_ have been 'respectfully
declined' oftener than I like to think of. But I am going to make a hit
this time, if I die for it."

"Yes," said Norine, gazing in respectful awe at the smeary looking pile
of writing; "what do you call it?"

"This," said the authoress, slapping her hand on the heap, "is my first
novel, to run in serial form in the _Flag of the Free_. Its name is the
'Demon Dentist; or the Mystery of the Double Tooth!' What do you think
of that?"

"The Demon--_what_?" asked Mrs. Laurence, rather aghast.

"'The Demon Dentist.' The title is rather a striking one, I think, and
Sir Walter Scott says a good name is half the battle. And, I flatter
myself, the plot is as original as the title. Lord Racer, only son of
the Earl of Greenturf, the hero of the story, steals the Lemon stone,
the magnificent family diamond, and hides it--where do you think? Why he
goes to the Demon Dentist, gets his wisdom tooth excavated, buries it in
the cavernous depths of the molar, has it cemented up again, and there
it is! Search is made, but no one thinks of looking in Lord Racer's
lower jaw, of course. Wilkie Collins has written a novel about a man who
steals a diamond in his sleep, but I rather think my idea is a step
ahead of Mr. Wilkie Collins. Finally the Demon Dentist murders Lord--oh
gracious me! here's 'Lizabeth, and tea not ready."

Miss Waddle the younger jumped up in consternation, scuttled the "_Demon
Dentist_," headforemost, into her desk, and made a rush for the kitchen,
as Miss Waddle the elder opened the parlor door.

Norine took a step forward, her face flushing, her eyes kindling with
eager hope, her breath coming quick. She did not speak a word, and one
glance into Miss Waddle's pitying face answered that breathless look.

"No letter yet, Mrs. Laurence," she said very gently. "I waited for the
mail."

She did not speak a word. She sat down suddenly, sick--sick to the very
heart with the bitter sense of the disappointment. The flush faded from
her face, the light from her eyes; she drew a long, dry, sobbing breath,
folded her arms on the table