"First of all, though it sounds rather illogical," said Erica, "I write
because I MUST; there is something in me which will have its way. Then,
too, it is part of our creed that every one should do all in his power
to help on the cause, and of course, if only for my father's sake, it
would be my greatest pleasure. Then, last of all, I write because I must
earn my living."

"Good reasons all," said Charles Osmond. "But I don't feel sure that you
won't regret having written when you look back several years hence."

"Oh! I dare say it will all seem crude and ridiculous then, but one must
make a beginning," said Erica.

"And are you sure you have thought out these great questions so
thoroughly and fairly that you are capable of teaching others about
them?"

"Ah! Now I see what you mean!" exclaimed Erica; "you think I write in
defense of atheism, or as an attacker of Christianity. I do nothing
of the kind; father would not allow me to, he would not think me old
enough. Oh! No, I am only to write the lighter articles which are needed
every now and then. Today I had a delightful subject--'Heroes--what are
they?'"

"Well, and what is your definition of a hero, I wonder; what are the
qualities you think absolutely necessary to make one?"

"I think I have only two absolutely necessary ones," said Erica; "but my
heroes must have these two, they must have brains and goodness."

"A tolerably sweeping definition," said Charles Osmond, laughing,
"almost equal to a friend of mine who wanted a wife, and said there were
only two things he would stipulate for--1,500 a year, and an angel. But
it brings us to another definition, you see. We shall agree as to the
brains, but how about goodness! What is your definition of that very
wide, not to say vague, term?"

"I don't think I can define it," she said; "but one knows it when one
sees it."

"Do you mean by it unselfishness, courage, truthfulness, or any other
virtue?"

"Oh, it isn't any one virtue, or even a parcel of virtues, it will not
go into words."

"It is then the nearest approach to some perfect ideal which is in your
mind?"

"I suppose it is," she said, slowly.

"How did that ideal come into your mind?"

"I don't know; I suppose I got it by inheritance."

"From the original moneron?"

"You are laughing at me. I don't know how of course, but I have it,
which, as far as I can see, is all that matters."

"I am not sure of that," said Charles Osmond. "The explana