the sake of your reputation."

"My reputation!" exclaimed the victim. "Oh," she groaned, "they did that?
Oh, my land! My name on everything. I shall sink through the floor. Run,
run quick!"

The corridors were almost deserted during that recitation period. There
was no stray freshman in sight to gaze scandalized at the vision of two
reverend seniors racing toward the lecture room door. Berta dashed in
just as the chairman of the board, with hair flying and cheeks flushed
from the exertion, was brandishing a hatchet in one hand and a splintered
fragment of wood in the other. The business editor hammered away with
characteristic energy at the ragged remnants. The rest stood around
waiting as patiently as possible in their weaponless zeal. Several
glanced up and grinned provokingly at the appearance of their head
literary editor.

"So you've heard the news, have you?" began the artist, "you look wild.
We knew you'd never consent to sign the things yourself, and it was rank
injustice to let you do the work and receive no special credit. Even the
ideas are yours, but we couldn't tag a name to them. Wish we could. That
one for the main feature--the pictures of distinguished alumnae----"

"Hold on!" the chairman backed into a convenient corner before Berta's
frenzied reproaches, "it's all right. We added a note of explanation.
Nobody will blame you for writing so well. And the initials are very
small anyhow. Here, look!" She made a dive for the box, ripped off a
second board with quick blows, snatched away the wrapping paper
underneath, and dislodged a handsome green volume from its snug nest. She
thrust it into Berta's hands. "It's your book really more than
anybody's--your first published book."

Berta took it, sat down in a desk-chair near by, and turned the leaves
slowly with fingers that trembled from nervousness.

Bea bent over her shoulder. "It seems as if that name of yours is on
every page," she teased, "pretty name, don't you think? And isn't it a
beautiful, beautiful book! Wide margins, heavy paper, clear print, fine
reproductions. Won't the girls be delighted with those pictures of the
basket ball teams! See, ah, there is the page of photographs. You
suggested that the editors should appear as the babies they used to be
forty years or so ago. What a dear little curly-head you were at the age
of two, Berta! I want to hug you."

The embarrassment began to fade from Berta's expression as she gazed at
the baby