ation that he turned
hastily into a cough. "I thought that perhaps the editor of the Courier
might like to see it--it being local. And interesting."

He brought it down to the office of the little paper himself, and
promised to call for it again in an hour or two, when Lem Davis should
have read it. Lem Davis did read it, and snorted, and scuffled with his
feet in the drift of papers under his desk, which was a way he had when
enraged.

"Read it!" he echoed, at Professor Henning's question. "Read it! Yes, I
read it. And let me tell you it's socialism of the rankest kind, that's
what! It's anarchism, that's what! Who's this girl? Mrs. Brandeis's
daughter--of the Bazaar? Let me tell you I'd go over there and tell her
what I think of the way she's bringing up that girl--if she wasn't an
advertiser. `A Piece of Paper'! Hell!" And to show his contempt for what
he had read he wadded together a great mass of exchanges that littered
his desk and hurled them, a crumpled heap, to the floor, and then spat
tobacco juice upon them.

"I'm sorry," said Professor Henning, and rose; but at the door he turned
and said something highly unprofessorial. "It's a darn fine piece
of writing." And slammed the door. At supper that night he told Mrs.
Henning about it. Mrs. Henning was a practical woman, as the wife of a
small-town high school principal must needs be. "But don't you know,"
she said, "that Roscoe Moore, who is president of the Outagamie Pulp
Mill and the Winnebago Paper Company, practically owns the Courier?"

Professor Henning passed a hand over his hair, ruefully, like a school
boy. "No, Martha, I didn't know. If I knew those things, dear, I suppose
we wouldn't be eating sausage for supper to-night." There was a little
silence between them. Then he looked up. "Some day I'm going to brag
about having been that Brandeis girl's teacher."

Fanny was in the store a great deal now. After she finished high school
they sent Mattie away and Fanny took over the housekeeping duties, but
it was not her milieu. Not that she didn't do it well. She put a perfect
fury of energy and care into the preparation of a pot roast. After she
had iced a cake she enhanced it with cunning arabesques of jelly. The
house shone as it never had, even under Mattie's honest regime. But
it was like hitching a high-power engine to a butter churn. There were
periods of maddening restlessness. At such times she would set
about cleaning the cellar, perhaps. It wa