ls who might have been more easily spared."

I brushed a hand across my weary brow. It did not feel like cobwebs
exactly,--more like cork, sort of light and dry and full of holes. I had
been up almost all night, studying over those fifteen manuscripts,
applying the principles of criticism, weighing, balancing, measuring,
arguing with myself, and rebelling against fate. If Robbie Belle had been
there she could have recognized the best story by instinct. Ever since I
became chief editor I had depended upon her judgment, because she is a
born critic and always right, and I'm not. And now just when I needed her
most of all and more than anybody else, there she had to go and get
quarantined in the infirmary.

"Girls," I said, "do express an opinion. Say what you think. We simply
must decide this matter now, because the prize story has to go to press
before the first, and this is our only free afternoon. I know what I
think--at least I am almost sure what I think--but I want to hear your
views first. Adele, you're always conscientious."

Adele was only a junior and rather new to the responsibility of being on
the editorial board. She glanced down at her page of notes.

"Every one of the stories has some good points," she began cautiously.
"Most of them start out well and several finish well. Six have good
plots, nine are interesting, five are brightly written. Number seven is,
I believe--yes, I think I consider it the best. The trouble is----"

"Altogether too jerky," interrupted Jo, "a fine plot but no style
whatever. This is a cat. See the cat catch the rat. That's the kind of
English in number seven. Now I vote for number fifteen."

"Oh, but, Jo," I broke in eagerly, for number seven was my own laborious
choice also, and Adele's corroboration strengthened me wonderfully. "Jo,
it is the simplicity of the style that is its greatest recommendation.
You know how Professor Whitcomb has drummed into us the beauty of
Anglo-Saxon diction. It's beautiful--it's charming--it's perfect. Why, a
six-year-old could understand it. Fifteen is far too sensational for good
art. Just listen to this----"

Jo was stubborn. "The use of short words is a mere fad," she said, "it is
like wearing dimity for every occasion. Now listen to this!"

She snatched up one manuscript and read aloud while I declaimed from the
other. Adele listened with a pained frown on her forehead, Janet laughed
and teetered recklessly to and fro on her frisky chair,