note. There it lays, that virgin lawnjerie, for all the
county to look at, with pink ribbons run through everything,
and the poor Krieger girl never dreamin' she's doin'
somethin' indelicate. She says yesterday if she wins the
prize she's going to put it toward one of these kitchen
cabinets."

I wish we could stop a while with Aloysius. He is well
worth it. Aloysius, who looked a pass between Ichabod Crane
and Smike; Aloysius, with his bit of scandal burnished with
wit; who, after a long, hard Saturday, would go home to
scrub the floor of the dingy lodgings where he lived with
his invalid mother, and who rose in the cold dawn of Sunday
morning to go to early mass, so that he might return to cook
the dinner and wait upon the sick woman. Aloysius, whose
trousers flapped grotesquely about his bony legs, and whose
thin red wrists hung awkwardly from his too-short sleeves,
had in him that tender, faithful and courageous stuff of
which unsung heroes are made. And he adored his clever,
resourceful boss to the point of imitation. You should have
seen him trying to sell a sled or a doll's go-cart in
her best style. But we cannot stop for Aloysius. He is
irrelevant, and irrelevant matter halts the progress of a
story. Any one, from Barrie to Harold Bell Wright, will
tell you that a story, to be successful, must march.

We'll keep step, then, with Molly Brandeis until she drops
out of the ranks. There is no detouring with Mrs. Brandeis
for a leader. She is the sort that, once her face is set
toward her goal, looks neither to right nor left until she