"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?"