“Now yours, Louisa.”
A break in his short sister’s voice betokened uncontrollable pride.
“‘We are glad to say that Miss L. Barnes, younger sister of our secretary, is slowly recovering from a rather serious illness.’ First time,” said Louisa, waving the journal in the air, “the very first time my name’s ever been in print.”
“May I suggest, Mr. Editor,” said Rosalind, leading him to the iron chain that protected the edge of the pier, “that it is a little clumsy to express satisfaction at slow recovery? It wasn’t what you meant.”
“Don’t let on to her about it,” urged Erb distressed. “I haven’t got quite the hang of writing. Is there anything else you noticed?”
“Nothing of importance.”
“Tell us,” begged the anxious editor, “and get it over.”
“These personal paragraphs, headed ‘What we Want to Know.’”
“The men all liked them.”
“A little spiteful,” she said quietly. “Calculated to hurt somebody. I shouldn’t, if I were you. This one, for instance.”