that nobody had suspected of being
literary. There was also a verse, or rather two verses; and it was these
that caused the usually prompt and decisive Helen to hesitate and even
to dawdle, wasting a precious afternoon in a futile attempt to square
her conscience and still do as she pleased about those verses. One of
them was Helen's own. It was good; Miss Raymond had said so with
emphasis, and Helen wanted it to go into the "Argus." She had rather
expected that Jane Drew would ask for it for the main department of the
magazine; but she hadn't, and her copy had gone to Miss Raymond the day
before. The other verses were also stamped with Miss Raymond's heartiest
approval, and like the rest of the articles that Helen had collected,
they were the work of a "nobody." Helen's vigorous unearthing of
undiscovered talent was a joke with the "Argus" staff, and her own great
pride. But to-day she was not in a benevolent mood. She had refused all
through the fall to have anything of her own in the "Argus"; she did not
believe in the editors printing their own work. But these verses were
different; she loved them, she wanted people to see them and to know
that they were hers.

She had thought of consulting Jane or Marion Lustig, who was
editor-in-chief, but she knew beforehand what either of them would say.
"Put in your own verse, silly child! Why didn't you say you'd like it
used in the other department? We've got to blow our own horns if we want
them blown. Use the others next time--or give them back."

But by next month there might be an embarrassment of good material, and
as for giving them back, Jane could do it easily enough, but Helen,
being queer, couldn't. For who knew how much getting into the "Argus"
might mean to that unknown other girl? Helen had never so much as heard
her name before, though she was a sophomore. She had a premonition that
she was queer too, and lonely and unhappy. The verses were very sad, and
somehow they sounded true.

"Perhaps she'll be an editor some day," Helen sighed. "Anyway I'll give
her a chance."

She put on her coat and gathered up her manuscripts, first folding her
own verses and pushing them vindictively into the depths of her own
particular drawer in the sanctum table.

When she reached the Davidson she noticed with relief that Miss
Raymond's windows were dark. She was in time then. But when she knocked
on the half-opened door she was taken aback to hear Miss Raymond's voice
saying