herself upon him, crushing the paper in his hand.

"I can't," she cried, looking in terror over her shoulder as she spoke,
"I can't. I don't want to be a newspaper woman. I don't want any
literary career. I am a minister's daughter, Mr. Raider, I can't talk
about people's troubles. I want to go home."

Mr. Raider looked searchingly into the white face, and noted the
frightened eyes. "There now," he said soothingly, "never mind the Daly
story. I'll cover it myself. I guess it was too hard an assignment to
begin with, and you a friend of the family, and all. Let it go. You stay
at home this afternoon. Come back to-morrow and I'll start you again.
Maybe I was too hard on you to-day."

"I don't want to," she cried, looking back at the shadow, which seemed
somehow to have receded a little. "I don't want to be a newspaper woman.
I think I'll be the other kind of writer,--not newspapers, you know,
just plain writing. I'm sure I shall like it better. I wasn't cut out
for this line, I know. I want to go now."

"Run along," he said. "I'll see you later on. You go to bed. You're
nearly sick."

Dignity? Lark did not remember that she had ever dreamed of dignity. She
just started for home, for her father, Aunt Grace and the girls! The
shabby old parsonage seemed suddenly very bright, very sunny, very
safe. The dreadful dark shadow was not pressing so close to her
shoulders, did not feel so smotheringly near.

A startled group sprang up from the porch to greet her. She flung one
arm around Carol's shoulder, and drew her twin with her close to her
aunt's side. "I don't want to be a newspaper woman," she cried, in a
high excited voice. "I don't like it. I am awfully afraid of--THE
PRESS--" She looked over her shoulder. The shadow was fading away in the
distance. "I couldn't do it. I--" And then, crouching, with Carol, close
against her aunt's side, clutching one of the soft hands in her own, she
told the story.

"I couldn't, Fairy," she declared, looking beseechingly into the strong
kind face of her sister. "I--couldn't. Mrs. Daly--sobbed so, and her
hands were so brown and hard, Fairy, she kept rubbing my shoulder, and
saying, 'Oh, Lark, oh, Lark, my little children.' I couldn't. I don't
like newspapers, Fairy. Really, I don't."

Fairy looked greatly troubled. "I wish father were at home," she said
very quietly. "Mr. Raider meant all right, of course, but it was wrong
to send a young girl like you. Father is there now. It's