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down, something told her that her time would come. So, though she flinched momentarily at each rejection, as from the flick of a whip, she sat down and—wrote another story.

Still, her inner voice had grown rather faint under so many discouragements. The acceptance of The Woman Who Spanked the King suddenly raised it into a joyous pæan of certainty again. The check meant much, but the storming of that magazine much more. She felt that she was surely winning a foothold. Mr. Carpenter chuckled over it and told her it really was “absolutely good.”

“The best in this story belongs to Mistress McIntyre,” said Emily ruefully. “I can’t call it mine.”

“The setting is yours—and what you've added harmonises perfectly with your foundation. And you didn’t polish hers up too much—that shows the artist. Weren’t you tempted to?”

“Yes. There were so many places I thought I could improve it a good deal.”

“But you didn’t try to—that makes it yours,” said Mr. Carpenter—and left her to puzzle his meaning out for herself.

Emily spent thirty-five of her dollars so sensibly that even Aunt Ruth herself couldn’t find fault with her budget. But with the remaining five she bought a set of Parkman. It was a much nicer set than the prize one—which the donor had really picked out of a mail-order list—and Emily felt much prouder of it than if it had been the prize. After all, it was better to earn things for yourself. Emily has those Parkmans yet—somewhat faded and frayed now, but dearer to her than all the other volumes in her library. For a few weeks she was very happy and uplifted. The Murrays were proud of her, Principal Hardy had congratulated her, a local elocutionist of some repute had read her story at a concert in Charlottetown. And, most wonderful of all, a far-away reader in Mexico had written her a letter telling her what pleasure