n I hate it--I hate the college except
for math. My mother teaches in the high school--she works day after day,
spending her life and strength and health, so that I may stay here. I--I
hate it. She wants me to become a writer. And I can't, I can't, I can't!
I want to elect mathematics."

"Oh!" said I.

"When she was a girl, she longed to write, but circumstances prevented.
Then I was born and she thought I would carry out her ambition and grow
to be an author myself. She's been trying years and years. But I can't
write. I'm not like my mother. I have my own life to live. I--I hate it
so. And--and----" The child stopped, swallowed hard, then leaned toward
me, her eyes begging me.

"And if you keep my story for the prize, she will hear about it, and she
won't let me elect mathematics for my sophomore year."

"Oh!" I said, and I was surprised to such a degree that the oh sounded
like a giggle at the end. That made me so ashamed that I sat up a little
more erect and ejaculated vivaciously, "You--you astonish me."

It was the funniest thing--she hung her head like a conscience-smitten
child. "I--I haven't told her about it because it would encourage her and
then later she would--would be all the more disappointed. I can't write,
I tell you."

"The vote was almost unanimous," I remarked stiffly.

She stared at me doubtfully. "Well, maybe that story is good but I know I
couldn't do it again. And anyhow my mother told me the plot."

"Oh," I said. It was really the plot that had won the prize, you
understand, though indeed I had found the style eminently praiseworthy
also according to all the principles of criticism. It almost fulfilled
the rhetorical rules about unity, mass and coherence.

"So you will let me withdraw?" she questioned timidly, "here's the ten
dollars." She held out the crumpled bill which she had been clutching all
the evening.

I thought I might as well be going. "It's allowable to use your own
mother's plot," I assured her, "don't bother about that. Good bye."

Without looking at her I hurried through the alleyway into the corridor,
flew past the sanctum, darted into the staircase, then halted, turned
around, stopped at the water-cooler for a taste of ice water, then walked
slowly back to her room.

I put my head in at the door. "You heard me say, didn't you, that the
story has gone to press?"

She lifted her face from that same yellow silk pillow. "Yes," she said.

"All right." I started awa