t so skilfully that criticism seemed a subtle flattery,
and the very blame conveyed a compliment. Then he asked for more
stories. And a new heaven and a new earth seemed to unroll before the
girl's eyes. If she could only write--and succeed--and----

"Will you come again?" he said at last. "Aunt Kate----"

"Oh," she said, with eyes shining softly, "it doesn't matter about Aunt
Kate now! I shall be so busy trying to write stories."

"The fact is----" said the editor slowly, racking his brains for a
reason that should bring her to the office again--"the fact is--_I_ am
Aunt Kate."

Kitty sprang to her feet. Her face flamed scarlet. She stood silent a
moment. Then: "_You?_" she cried. "Oh, it's _not_ fair--it's mean--it's
shameful! Oh--how could you! And girls write to _you_--and they think
it's a woman--and they tell you about their troubles. It's horrible!
It's underhand--it's abominable! I hate you for it. Every one ought to
know. I shall write to the papers."

"Please, please," said the editor hurriedly and humbly--"it's not my
fault. It _is_ a lady who does it generally, but she had to go away--and
I couldn't get any one else to do it. And I didn't see--till after you'd
been the other day--that it wasn't fair. And I was going to ask if _you_
would do it--the correspondence, I mean--just for this week. I wish you
would!"

"Could I?" she said doubtfully.

"Of course you could! And if you'd bring the copy on Monday--about two
columns, you know--we could go through it together and----"

"Well, I'll try," said Kitty abruptly, reaching out for the sheaf of
letters which he was gathering together.

And now who was happier than Kitty, seated behind her locked bedroom
door advising "Dieu-donnee" and "Shy Fairy" and "Contadina" out of the
unfathomable depths of her girlish inexperience. Her advice looked
wonderfully practical, though, in print, she thought, as with a thrill
of pride and joy she corrected the first proofs. And she wrote stories,
too, and they, too, were printed. It was indeed a bright and beautiful
world. Aunt Eliza stayed away for five glorious weeks. Kitty, with an
enthralling sense of reckless wickedness, gave up her useless music
lessons, and in going three times a week to the office experienced a
glowing consciousness of the joy and dignity of honest toil.

The editor, by the way, during these five weeks fell in love with Kitty,
exactly as he had known he would do when first he saw her grey eyes.