"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?"