CHAPTER IV


DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH

It's hard trying to develop into a real Writer Lady in
the bosom of one's family, especially when the family
refuses to take one seriously. Seven years of newspaper
grind have taught me the fallacy of trying to write by
the inspiration method. But there is such a thing as a
train of thought, and mine is constantly being derailed,
and wrecked and pitched about.

Scarcely am I settled in my cubby-hole, typewriter
before me, the working plan of a story buzzing about in
my brain, when I hear my name called in muffled tones, as
though the speaker were laboring with a mouthful of
hairpins. I pay no attention. I have just given my
heroine a pair of calm gray eyes, shaded with black
lashes and hair to match. A voice floats down from the
upstairs regions.

"Dawn! Oh, Dawn! Just run and rescue the cucumbers
out of the top of the ice-box, will you? The iceman's
coming, and he'll squash 'em."