ed Connie closely. Sure enough, she
headed straight for her own room, and Carol, close outside, heard a
crumpling of paper. She opened the door quickly and went in. Connie
turned, startled, a guilty red staining her pale face. Carol sat down
sociably on the side of the bed, politely ignoring Connie's feeble
attempt to keep the crumpled manuscript from her sight. She engaged her
sister in a broad-minded and sweeping conversation, adroitly leading it
up to the subject of literature. But Connie would not be inveigled into
a confession. Then Carol took a wide leap.

"Did you get the story back?"

Connie gazed at her with an awe that was almost superstitious. Then, in
relief at having the confidence forced from her, tears brightened her
eyes, but being Connie, she winked them stubbornly back.

"I sure did," she said.

"Hard luck," said Carol, in a matter-of-fact voice. "Let's see it."

Connie hesitated, but finally passed it over.

"I'll take it to my own room and read it if you don't mind. What are you
going to do with it now?"

"Burn it."

"Let me have it, won't you? I'll hide it and keep it for a souvenir."

"Will you keep it hidden? You won't pass it around for the family to
laugh at, will you?"

Carol gazed at her reproachfully, rose from the bed in wounded dignity
and moved away with the story in her hand. Connie followed her to the
door and said humbly:

"Excuse me, Carol, I know you wouldn't do such a thing. But a person
does feel so ashamed of a story--when it comes back."

"That's all right," was the kind answer. "I know just how it is. I have
the same feeling when I get a pimple on my face. I'll keep it dark."

More eagerly than she would have liked Connie to know, she curled
herself upon the bed to read Connie's masterpiece. It was a simple
story, but Connie did have a way of saying things, and--Carol laid it
down in her lap and stared at it thoughtfully. Then she called Lark.

"Look here," she said abruptly. "Read this. It's the masterpiece."

She maintained a perfect silence while Lark perused the crumpled
manuscript.

"How is it?"

"Why, it's not bad," declared Lark in a surprised voice. "It's not half
bad. It's Connie all right, isn't it? Well, what do you know about
that?"

"Is it any good?" pursued Carol.

"Why, yes, I think it is. It's just like folks you know. They talk as
we do, and--I'm surprised they didn't keep it. I've read 'em a whole lot
worse!"

"Connie's disappointed,"