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.