used.

"Yes," said Ed Martin encouragingly.

"I was just thinking--that perhaps--" She clasped her hands tightly
together and fixed her shining eyes on him in mute appeal. Then:

"You see, Mr. Martin, sometimes it comes over you--" She broke off
again.

Ed Martin was regarding her out of friendly blue eyes.

"Maybe I can guess what sometimes comes over you. You want to write--is
that it?"

His kindly voice and manner emboldened her.

"Yes--it's part that. And a feeling that--Oh, it's so hard to put into
words, Mr. Martin!"

"I know; feelings are often hard to put into words. But they're usually
the most worth while kind of feelings. And that's what words are for."

"Well, I was just feeling that at my age--that I was letting my life
slip away--accomplishing nothing really worth while. You know--?"

"Yes, we all feel like that sometimes, I guess." Ed Martin nodded with
profound solemnity.

Oh, Ed Martin was wonderful! He DID understand things! She went ahead
less tremulously now.

"And I was feeling I wanted to get started at something. At something
REALLY worth while, you know."

Ed Martin nodded again.

"And I thought, maybe, you could help me get started--or something." She
gazed at him with open-eyed trust, as if she expected him with a word to
solve her undefined problem.

"Get started?--at writing, you mean?"

Oh, how wonderfully Ed Martin understood!

He shuffled some papers on his desk. "Just what do you want to write,
Missy?"

"I don't know, exactly. When I can, I'd like to write something sort of
political--or cosmic."

"Oh," said Ed Martin, nodding. He shuffled the papers some more. Then:
"Well, when that kind of a germ gets into the system, I guess the best
thing to do is to get it out before it causes mischief. If it coagulates
in the system, it can cause a lot of mischief."

Just what did he mean?

"Yes, a devil of a lot of mischief," he went on. "But the trouble is,
Missy, we haven't got any job on politics or--or the cosmos open just
now. But--"

He paused, gazing over her head. Missy felt her heart pause, too.

"Oh, anykind of a writing job," she proffered quaveringly.

"I can't think of anything here that's not taken care of, except"--his
glance fell on the ornate-looking "society page" of the Macon City
Sunday Journal, spread out on his desk--"a society column."

In her swift breath of ecstasy Missy forgot to note the twinkle in his
eye.

"Oh, I'd love to write socie