"But the parade," demurred Ralph, "it is not even written. I can manage
the press well enough, but our reporter Mr. Thomas, has not come in this
morning. I suppose yesterday was too much for him."

"I think I could write up the parade," ventured Dorothy. "I have often
helped father read proof, you know."

"Perhaps you can," assented Ralph. "Here is a pencil and some copy
paper. You had better try at once, as I will have to go to press earlier
than usual to allow for 'snags,'" and he smiled to apologize for the
newspaper slang.

Dorothy sat down at her father's desk. Somehow, she felt a confidence in
her efforts when seated there, where he had worked so faithfully, and
successfully, too, for the Bugle sounded always the note of truth and
sincerity. She started at once to write up the parade. She should be
careful, of course, not to mention the major's name, or her own (her
father never did) and she hoped she could at least make a good
composition or essay on Memorial Day.

Dorothy worked earnestly, for she meant to have that issue of the paper
up to the mark, if her labors could bring it there.

Ralph had rolled up his sleeves again, and was busy with the press.
Tavia was "nosing around," as she expressed it. The door opened suddenly
and little Johnnie Travers rushed in.

"The major sent me--to tell you--" and he had to get a new breath in
somehow--" to tell you that old Mrs. Douglass is--is dead!" he finally
managed to say. "He wants you to be sure to--to--put her in the paper."