diant, and caught her friend
in her eager arms, and put an end to policy for that day.

But policy and labor did not end at twilight every day; there were
evenings, as in the time of Harkless, when lamps shone from the upper
windows of the "Herald" building. For the little editor worked hard,
and sometimes she worked late; she always worked early. She made some
mistakes at first, and one or two blunders which she took more seriously
than any one else did. But she found a remedy for all such results of
her inexperience, and she developed experience. She set at her task with
the energy of her youthfulness and no limit to her ambition, and she
felt that Harkless had prepared the way for a wide expansion of the
paper's interests; wider than he knew. She had a belief that there were
possibilities for a country newspaper, and she brought a fresh point of
view to operate in a situation where Harkless had fallen, perhaps, too
much in the rut; and she watched every chance with a keen eye and looked
ahead of her with clear foresight. What she waited and yearned for and
dreaded, was the time when a copy of the new "Herald" should be placed
in the trembling hands of the man who lay in the Rouen hospital. Then,
she felt, if he, unaware of her identity, should place everything in her
hands unreservedly, that would be a tribute to her work--and how hard
she would labor to deserve it! After a time, she began to realize that,
as his representative and the editor of the "Herald," she had become
a factor in district politics. It took her breath--but with a gasp of
delight, for there was something she wanted to do.

Above all, she brought a light heart to her work. One evening in the
latter part of that first week of the new regime, Parker perceived Bud
Tipworthy standing in the doorway of the printing-room, beckoning him
silently to come without.

"What's the matter, Buddie?"

"Listen. She's singin' over her work."

Parker stepped outside. On the pavement, people had stopped to listen;
they stood in the shadow, looking up with parted lips at the open,
lighted Windows, whence came a clear, soft, reaching voice, lifted in
song; now it swelled louder, unconsciously; now its volume was more
slender and it melted liquidly into the night; again, it trembled and
rose and dwelt in the ear, strong and pure; and, hearing it, you sighed
with unknown longings. It was the "Angels' Serenade."

Bud Tipworthy's sister, Cynthia, was with him, and Pa