indelible impression
on her. Even now that she was a prominent senior, an "Argus" editor, and
a valued member of Dramatic Club, she never seemed to herself to
"belong" to things as the other girls did. She was still an outsider. An
unexplainable something held her aloof from the easy familiarities of
the life around her, and made it inevitable that she should be, as she
had been from the first, an observer rather than an actor in the drama
of college life. And from her vantage point of observation she saw many
strange things, and made her own little queer deductions and comments
upon them.

On a certain gray and gloomy afternoon in November Helen sat alone in
the "Argus" sanctum. She loved that sanctum--the big oak table strewn
with books and magazines, the soft-toned oriental rugs, and the
shimmering green curtains between which one could catch enchanting
glimpses of Paradise River and the sunsets. She liked it as much as she
hated her own bare little room, where the few pretty things that she had
served only to call attention to the many that she hadn't. But to-day
she was not thinking about the room or the view. It was "make-up" day
for the sketch department--Helen's department of the "Argus." In half an
hour she must submit her copy to Miss Raymond for approval--not that the
exact hour of the day was specified, but if she waited until nearer
dinner-time or until evening Miss Raymond was very likely to be at home,
and Helen dreaded, while she enjoyed a personal interview with her
divinity. Curiously enough she was more than ever afraid of Miss
Raymond since she had been chosen editor of the "Argus." She was sure
that Miss Raymond was responsible for her appointment, but she had never
gotten up courage to thank her, and she was possessed by the fear that
she was disappointing Miss Raymond in the performance of her official
duties. So she preferred to find Miss Raymond's fascinating sitting-room
vacant when she brought her copy, to drop it swiftly on the table
nearest the door, and stopping only for one look at the enticing
prospect of new books heaped on old mahogany, to flee precipitately like
a thief in the night.

The copy for this month was all ready. There was Ruth Howard's
monologue, almost as funny to read as it had been in the telling, next,
by way of contrast, a sad little story of neglected childhood by a
junior who had never written anything good before, and a humorous essay
on kittens by another junior