p, and--I had to put out the fire. He can't run,
either. He is a cripple."

"Oh!" the voice was sharp with distress, and in spite of herself, the
older girl's face softened. "You--you care?" she whispered.

"Of course I care," cried Peace warmly. "Poor little Benny! He is
little, ain't he? He sounds little. Can't you have him cured?"

"Perhaps, if there was any money to pay the bills. But so far, it has
taken every cent I could earn to keep us in food and clothes. I had
hoped my book would be successful and that the royalties would be enough
to take care of us, so the short story money could pay for an
operation. But now I can never finish the book."

"Can't you get a typewriter? You could use one of those, couldn't you?
Grandpa has one for his work at home, and he thumps it with only one
finger on each hand."

"Do you know how much a typewriter costs?" she asked.

"No. Very much?"

"More than I could ever spend for one."

"And there's no one else to help?"

"No one. My father is dead. Benny's mother,--my sister,--is dead. Her
husband is a drunken sot. We turned him out long ago. It was he who
crippled Benny. Poor little Benny! He's only three, and he will never
have a chance with the other boys and girls."

"I've got five dollars," Peace shyly confided. "It's all my own to do as
I please with. I want you to take it. Will it buy a typewriter?"

"O, my, no! They cost heaps of money,--a hundred dollars for a brand new
one of the kind I want. But--but it's real dear of you to offer me your
money. I can't take it, child. I'm not a beggar."

"We weren't beggars in Parker, either; but it came in mighty handy
sometimes to have folks give us things. Course we always tried to _earn_
them if we could, and if you want to _earn_ this money, you might write
me five dollars' worth of stories. Oh, I forgot!" She glanced hastily at
the crippled hands, then averted her eyes. "Truly I did. But you
needn't be snippy about my money. I know what 'tis to be poor."

"You! Why, your grandfather is President of the State University, Miss
Pierson says."

"That's my make-believe grandfather. My truly real one has been dead for
ages. Then papa died, and fin'ly mother, which left us to dig for
ourselves. We were worse off than you, 'cause there were six of us and
not one knew how to write stories for money. I guess we'd all have
starved to death or gone to the poor farm if Grandpa hadn't come along
just about that time." Before Pea