pressed twins, she could not have been more
completely confounded. Carol was in a condition nearly as serious, but
grasping the gravity of the situation, she rushed into the breach
headlong.

"Yes,--yes," she gasped. "She's literary. Oh, she's very literary."

Mr. Raider smiled. "Well, would you like to try your hand out with me?"

Again Carol sprang to her sister's relief.

"Yes, indeed, she would," she cried. "Yes, indeed." And then, determined
to impress upon him that the _Daily News_ was the one to profit chiefly
from the innovation, she added, "And it's a lucky day for the _Daily
News_, too, I tell you. There aren't many Larks in Mount Mark, in a
literary way, I mean, and--the _Daily News_ needs some--that is, I
think--new blood,--anyhow, Lark will be just fine."

"All right. Come in, Monday morning at eight, Lark, and I'll set you to
work. It won't be anything very important. You can write up the church
news, and parties, and goings away, and things like that. It'll be good
training. You can study our papers between now and then, to catch our
style."

Carol lifted her head a little higher. If Mr. Raider thought her
talented twin would be confined to the ordinary style of the _Daily
News_, which Carol considered atrociously lacking in any style at all,
he would be most gloriously mistaken, that's certain!

It is a significant fact that after Mr. Raider went back into the
sanctum of the _Daily News_, the twins walked along for one full block
without speaking. Such a thing had never happened before in all the
years of their twinship. At the end of the block, Carol turned her head
restlessly. They were eight blocks from home. But the twins couldn't run
on the street, it was so undignified. She looked longingly about for a
buggy bound their way. Even a grocery cart would have been a welcome
though humbling conveyance.

Lark's starry eyes were lifted to the skies, and her rapt face was
glowing. Carol looked behind her, looked ahead. Then she thought again
of the eight blocks.

"Lark," she said, "I'm afraid we'll be late for dinner. And auntie told
us to hurry back. Maybe we'd better run."

Running is a good expression for emotion, and Lark promptly struck out
at a pace that did full credit to her lithe young limbs. Down the street
they raced, little tendrils of hair flying about their flushed and
shining faces, faster, faster, breathless, panting, their gladness
fairly overflowing. And many people turned to