Connie was past fifteen when she announced gravely one day, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to be an author.”

“An author,” scoffed Carol. “You! I thought you were going to get married and have eleven children.” Even with the dignity of nineteen years, the nimble wits of Carol and Lark still struggled with the irreproachable gravity of Connie.

“I was,” was the cool retort. “I thought you were going to be a Red Cross nurse and go to war.”

Carol blushed a little. “I was,” she assented, “but there isn’t any war.”

“Well,” even in triumph, Connie was imperturbable, “there isn’t any father for my eleven children either.”

The twins had to admit that this was an obstacle, and they yielded gracefully.

“But an author, Connie,” said Lark. “It’s very hard. I gave it up long ago.”

“I know you did. But I don’t give up very easily.”

“You gave up your eleven children.”

“Oh, I’ve plenty of time for them yet, when I find a father for them. Yes, I’m going to be an author.”

“Can you write?”

“Of course I can write.”

“Well, you have conceit enough to be anything,” said Carol frankly. “Maybe you’ll make it go, after all. I should like to have an author in the family and since Lark’s lost interest, I suppose it will have to be you. I couldn’t think of risking my complexion at such a precarious livelihood. But if you get stuck, I’ll be glad to help you out a little. I really have an imagination myself, though perhaps you wouldn’t think it.”

“What makes you think you can write, Con?” inquired Lark, with genuine interest.

“I have already done it.”

“Was it any good?”

“It was fine.”

Carol and Lark smiled at each other.

“Yes,” said Carol, “she has the long-haired instinct. I see it now. They always say it is fine. Was it a masterpiece, Connie?” And when Connie hesitated, she urged, “Come on, confess it. Then we shall be convinced that you have found your field. They are always masterpieces. Was yours?”

“Well, considering my youth and inexperience, it was,” Connie admitted, her eyes sparkling appreciatively. Carol’s wit was no longer lost upon her, at any rate.

“Bring it out. Let’s see it. I’ve never met a masterpiece yet, except a dead one,” said Lark.

“No no,” Connie backed up quickly. “You can’t see it, and don’t ask any more about it. Has father gone out?”

The twins stared at her again. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing, but it’s my story and you can’t see it. That settles it. Was there any mail to-day?”

Afterward the twins talked it over together.

“What made her back down like that?” Carol wondered. “Just when we had her going.”

“Why, didn’t you catch on to that? She has sent it off to a magazine, of course, and she doesn’t want us to know about it. I saw through it right away.”

Carol looked at her twin with new interest. “Did you ever send ’em off?”

Lark flushed a little. “Yes, I did, and always got ’em back, too worse luck. That’s why I gave it up.”

“What did you do with them when they came back?”

“Burned them. They always burn them. Connie’ll get hers back, and she’ll burn it, too,” was the laconic answer.

“An author,” mused Carol. “Do you think she’ll ever make it?”

“Well, honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised if she did. Connie’s smart, and she never gives up. Then she has a way of saying things that well, it takes. I really believe she’ll make it, if she doesn’t get off on suffrage or some other queer thing before she gets to it.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on her,” said Carol.

“You wait until she can’t eat a meal, and then you’ll know she’s got it back. Many’s the time Prudence made me take medicine, just because I got a story back. Prudence thought it was tummy-ache. The symptoms are a good bit the same.”

So Carol watched, and sure enough, there came a day when the bright light of hope in Connie’s eyes gave way to the sober sadness of certainty. Her light had failed. And she couldn’t eat her dinner.

Lark kicked Carol’s foot under the table, and the two exchanged amused glances.

“Connie’s not well,” said Lark with a worried air. “She isn’t eating a thing. You’d better give her a dose of that tonic, Aunt Grace. Prudence says the first sign of decay is the time for a tonic. Give her a dose.”

Lark solemnly rose and fetched the bottle. Aunt Grace looked at Connie inquiringly. Connie’s face was certainly pale, and her eyes were weary. And she was not eating her dinner.

“I’m not sick,” the crushed young author protested. “I’m just not hungry. You trot that bottle back to the cupboard, Lark, and don’t get gay.”

“You can see for yourself,” insisted Lark. “Look at her. Isn’t she sick? Many’s the long illness Prudence staved off for me by a dose of this magic tonic. You’d better make her take it, father. You can see she’s sick.” The lust of a sweeping family revenge showed in Lark’s clear eyes.

“You’d better take a little, Connie,” her father decided. “You don’t look very well to-day.”

“But, father,” pleaded Connie.

“A dose in time saves a doctor bill,” quoted Carol sententiously. “Prudence says so.”

And the aspiring young genius was obliged to swallow the bitter dose. Then, with the air of one who has rendered a boon to mankind, Lark returned to her chair.

After the meal was over, Carol shadowed Connie closely. Sure enough, she headed straight for her own room, and Carol, close outside, heard a crumpling of paper. She opened the door quickly and went in. Connie turned, startled, a guilty red staining her pale face. Carol sat down sociably on the side of the bed, politely ignoring Connie’s feeble attempt to keep the crumpled manuscript from her sight. She engaged her sister in a broad-minded and sweeping conversation, adroitly leading it up to the subject of literature. But Connie would not be inveigled into a confession. Then Carol took a wide leap.

“Did you get the story back?”

Connie gazed at her with an awe that was almost superstitious. Then, in relief at having the confidence forced from her, tears brightened her eyes, but being Connie, she winked them stubbornly back.

“I sure did,” she said.

“Hard luck,” said Carol, in a matter-of-fact voice. “Let’s see it.”

Connie hesitated, but finally passed it over.

“I’ll take it to my own room and read it if you don’t mind. What are you going to do with it now?”

“Burn it.”

“Let me have it, won’t you? I’ll hide it and keep it for a souvenir.”

“Will you keep it hidden? You won’t pass it around for the family to laugh at, will you?”

Carol gazed at her reproachfully, rose from the bed in wounded dignity and moved away with the story in her hand. Connie followed her to the door and said humbly:

“Excuse me, Carol, I know you wouldn’t do such a thing. But a person does feel so ashamed of a story when it comes back.”

“That’s all right,” was the kind answer. “I know just how it is. I have the same feeling when I get a pimple on my face. I’ll keep it dark.”

More eagerly than she would have liked Connie to know, she curled herself upon the bed to read Connie’s masterpiece. It was a simple story, but Connie did have a way of saying things, and Carol laid it down in her lap and stared at it thoughtfully. Then she called Lark.

“Look here,” she said abruptly. “Read this. It’s the masterpiece.”

She maintained a perfect silence while Lark perused the crumpled manuscript.

“How is it?”

“Why, it’s not bad,” declared Lark in a surprised voice. “It’s not half bad. It’s Connie all right, isn’t it? Well, what do you know about that?”

“Is it any good?” pursued Carol.

“Why, yes, I think it is. It’s just like folks you know. They talk as we do, and I’m surprised they didn’t keep it. I’ve read ’em a whole lot worse!”

“Connie’s disappointed,” Carol said. “I think she needs a little boost. I believe she’ll really get there if we kind of crowd her along for a while. She told me to keep this dark, and so I will. We’ll just copy it over, and send it out again.”

“And if it comes back?”

“We’ll send it again. We’ll get the name of every magazine in the library, and give ’em all a chance to start the newest author on the rosy way.”

“It’ll take a lot of stamps.”

“That’s so. Do you have to enclose enough to bring them back? I don’t like that. Seems to me it’s just tempting Providence. If they want to send them back, they ought to pay for doing it. I say we just enclose a note taking it for granted they’ll keep it, and tell them where to send the money. And never put a stamp in sight for them to think of using up.”

“We can’t do that. It’s bad manners.”

“Well, I have half a dollar,” admitted Carol reluctantly.

After that the weeks passed by. The twins saw finally the shadow of disappointment leaving Connie’s face, and another expression of absorption take its place.

“She’s started another one,” Lark said, wise in her personal experience.

And when there came the starry rapt gaze once more, they knew that this one, too, had gone to meet its fate. But before the second blow fell, the twins gained their victory. They embraced each other feverishly, and kissed the precious check a hundred times, and insisted that Connie was the cleverest little darling that ever lived on earth. Then, when Connie, with their father and aunt, was sitting in unsuspecting quiet, they tripped in upon her.

“We have something to read to you,” said Carol beaming paternally at Connie. “Listen attentively. Put down your paper, father. It’s important. Go on, Larkie.”

“My dear Miss Starr,” read Lark. “We are very much pleased with your story,” Connie sprang suddenly from her chair “your story, ’When the Rule worked Backwards.’ We are placing it in one of our early numbers, and shall be glad at any time to have the pleasure of examining more of your work. We enclose our check for forty-five dollars. Thanking you, and assuring you of the satisfaction with which we have read your story, I am,

Very cordially yours,

“Tra, lalalalala!” sang the twins, dancing around the room, waving, one 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 home. But she never despaired again.

And the twins, after their own manner, calmly took to themselves full credit for the career which they believed lay not far before her. They even boasted of the way they had raised her and told fatuous and exaggerated stories of their pride in her, and their gentle sisterly solicitude for her from the time of her early babyhood. And Connie gave assent to every word. In her heart she admitted that the twins’ discipline of her, though exceedingly drastic at times, had been splendid literary experience.