much—nor her feelings either. There was that queer, choking, cottony sensation in her throat which she knew meant the beginning of one of her terrific colds. Her shoulders ached, too. She glanced at the clock. An hour yet till train time! A writing-room opposite, warm in rose light, beckoned to her. There was an open fire burning; a maid in black and white was noiselessly replenishing the three or four little desks with fresh blotters and writing paper. Lucretia walked in and sat down at the one empty desk in the corner. She drew a sheet of paper toward her, dipped the stub pen intɔ the ink, and proceeded to write furiously.
"Dearest Tom," she began, "I'd like to cover about eight pages of notepaper with all the various forms of 'darn' that exist in this world, add a few dozen stars, twenty exclamation points, and several big, black, splotchy blots of ink the size of five-cent pieces! Then perhaps you'd get a little idea of my feelings! I'm tired of being a poor relation. I hate and despise being a charity-boarder. I'm sick of playing Sarah Crewe, Cinderella, and all the other neglected, woebegone heroines of fiction. I'm miserable and discouraged and heartsick to-night, and I wish this horrid old rain would swallow me up, and drown me
