the letter, the other the check.

Connie's face was pale, and she caught her head with both hands,
laughingly nervously. "I'm going round," she gasped. "Stop me."

Carol promptly pushed her down in a chair and sat upon her lap.

"Pretty good,--eh, what?"

"Oh, Carol, don't say that, it sounds awful," cautioned Lark.

"What do you think about it, Connie? Pretty fair boost for a struggling
young author, don't you think? Family, arise! The Chautauqua salute! We
have arrived. Connie is an author. Forty-five dollars!"

"But however did you do it?" wondered Connie breathlessly.

"Why, we sent it out, and--"

"Just once?"

"Alas, no,--we sent it seven times."

"Oh, girls, how could you! Think of the stamps! I'm surprised you had
the money."

"Remember that last quarter we borrowed of you? Well!"

Connie laughed excitedly. "Oh, oh!--forty-five dollars! Think of it. Oh,
father!"

"Where's the story," he asked, a little jealously. "Why didn't you let
me look it over, Connie?"

"Oh, father, I--couldn't. I--I--I felt shy about it. You don't know how
it is father, but--we want to keep them hidden. We don't get proud of
them until they've been accepted."

"Forty-five dollars." Aunt Grace kissed her warmly. "And the letter is
worth a hundred times more to us than that. And when we see the
story--"

"We'll go thirds on the money, twins," said Connie.

The twins looked eager, but conscientious. "No," they said, "it's just a
boost, you know. We can't take the money."

"Oh, you've got to go thirds. You ought to have it all. I would have
burned it."

"No, Connie," said Carol, "we know you aren't worth devotion like ours,
but we donate it just the same--it's gratis."

"All right," smiled Connie. "I know what you want, anyhow. Come on,
auntie, let's go down town. I'm afraid that silver silk mull will be
sold before we get there."

The twins fell upon her ecstatically. "Oh, Connie, you mustn't. We can't
allow it. Oh, of course if you insist, dearest, only--" And then they
rushed to find hats and gloves for their generous sister and devoted
aunt.

The second story came back in due time, but with the boost still strong
in her memory, and with the fifteen dollars in the bank, Connie bore it
bravely and started it traveling once more. Most of the stories never
did find a permanent lodging place, and Connie carried an old box to
the attic for a repository for her mental fruits that couldn't make
friends away from hom