the time to tell each and
every one of them how. The function I perform on this paper is hardly
that of instructor in a school of journalism."

She caught an outbound car, and ere she descended from it she had
conned the conversation over and over again. "But how?" she repeated to
herself, as she climbed the three flights of stairs to the rooms where
she and her sister "bach'ed." "But how?" And so she continued to put the
interrogation, for the stubborn Scotch blood, though many times removed
from Scottish soil, was still strong in her. And, further, there was
need that she should learn how. Her sister Letty and she had come up
from an interior town to the city to make their way in the world. John
Wyman was land-poor. Disastrous business enterprises had burdened his
acres and forced his two girls, Edna and Letty, into doing something for
themselves. A year of school-teaching and of night-study of shorthand
and typewriting had capitalized their city project and fitted them for
the venture, which same venture was turning out anything but
successful. The city seemed crowded with inexperienced stenographers and
typewriters, and they had nothing but their own inexperience to offer.
Edna's secret ambition had been journalism; but she had planned a
clerical position first, so that she might have time and space in which
to determine where and on what line of journalism she would embark. But
the clerical position had not been forthcoming, either for Letty or
her, and day by day their little hoard dwindled, though the room rent
remained normal and the stove consumed coal with undiminished voracity.
And it was a slim little hoard by now.

"There's Max Irwin," Letty said, talking it over. "He's a journalist
with a national reputation. Go and see him, Ed. He knows how, and he
should be able to tell you how."

"But I don't know him," Edna objected.

"No more than you knew the editor you saw to-day."

"Y-e-s," (long and judicially), "but that's different."

"Not a bit different from the strange men and women you'll interview
when you've learned how," Letty encouraged.

"I hadn't looked at it in that light," Edna conceded. "After all,
where's the difference between interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for some
paper, or interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for myself? It will be practice,
too. I'll go and look him up in the directory."

"Letty, I know I can write if I get the chance," she announced
decisively a moment later. "I just FEEL that I