ce was aware of it, she had poured out
the whole history of the little brown house in Parker, while the other
crippled girl listened spellbound.

"What a plot for a book!" she sighed ecstatically when the narrator had
finished. "And what a picture for one of the characters!" She fell to
studying Peace with a new interest in her heart.

"O, do you mean to write us up in a book?" cried Peace, fascinated with
the idea. "That's what Gail has always threatened to do, but I don't
expect she ever really will. Wouldn't it be splendid to have a story
written all about ourselves? What shall you call it? Will you let me
know when it is done so I can read it and see what kind of stuff you
write?"

But a shadow had fallen across her companion's face, so bright and
animated a moment before, and again she glanced involuntarily at the
bandaged hands which both in their eagerness had forgotten. But before
either could speak, there was a rustling sound of stiffly starched
skirts behind them, and Miss Keith, from the floor below, stepped around
the corner.

"Why, Peace Greenfield!" she exclaimed at sight of them. "What a start
you gave us! Don't you know you must never leave your own floor without
permission? If the elevator boy hadn't put us wise, we probably would be
phoning to the police by this time. Come downstairs now. Your sister is
waiting for you in your room."

So Peace departed, but not until she trundled through the doorway of her
room did she remember that the stranger had not told her name.

"O, dear," she greeted Gail. "I do show the least sense of anyone I
know."

"What seems to be the matter?" asked the big sister, amused at the look
of disgust on the small, thin face.

"I've just been gabbing with a real author lady, who has burned her
hands 'most off, so she can't write any more, and I forgot to ask her
name."

"Why, what are you talking about?" inquired Gail, amazed at the
unexpected answer.

"The author lady I just found crying in a corner upstairs because she
can't write stories any more. That's the way she's been earning the
bread and butter for her family, and she don't know what will happen to
them now. I thought maybe a typewriter would do the work, but she says
it costs a hundred dollars to buy the kind she wants, and she wouldn't
take my five. There's a baby boy, too, who can never walk unless there
is an operation and of course it takes slathers of money for that."

"Whose baby boy are you inter