written lines. Having finished the reading, she carefully folded
the worn slip again, and returned it to her pocket. Then she threw
back her pretty head, and any frequenter of the screen world would
have known instantly that the girl had decided--and further, that
her decision required courage, and perhaps defiance.

With determination marking every move, she crossed to the tumbled
bed, and stooping, dragged from beneath it a bag, the sort called
"telescope," and used rarely now, even by the traveling salesman,
who at one time found the sliding trunk so useful. It would
"telescope," and being thus adjustable, lent its proportions to
any sized burden imposed upon it. Into this the girl tossed a few
articles selected from the rummage on the table, a pair of shoes
gathered from more debris in a corner, and on top a sweater and
skirt, taken from a peg on the door. All together this composed
rather a pretentious assortment for the telescope.

But the girl did not jam down the cover in that "movie" way common
to runaways, rather she paused, glanced furtively about the gloomy
place, and finally taking a candle from a very high shelf, lighted
the taper, evidently for some delicate task in the way of
gathering up her very personal belongings.

In a remote corner of the room an upturned orange box served as
sort of stand. The front was covered and festooned with a curtain,
dexterously made of a bright skirt, hung over the sides, and
draped from a knot at the top. The knot was drawn from the waist
band of the skirt, and tied with the original string into a
grotesque rosette. All over the box top were such articles as a
girl might deem necessary in making a civilized toilette, except