extraordinarily meek, fearful Susan asked the question.

Only a shrug of the back-turned shoulders answered her.

"But, Mr. Burton, we--we've got to have the money for that operator;
an', anyhow, I--I mean to try." With a quick indrawing of her breath
she turned abruptly and left the studio.

That evening, in her own room, Susan pored over the two inexpensive
magazines that came to the house. She was searching for poems and for
addresses.

As she worked she began to look more cheerful. Both the magazines
published poems, and if they published one poem they would another, of
course, especially if the poem were a better one--and Susan could not
help feeling that they were better (those poems of hers) than almost
any she saw there in print before her. There was some SENSE to her
poems, while those others--why, some of them didn't mean anything, not
anything!--and they didn't even rhyme!

With real hope and courage, therefore, Susan laboriously copied off
the addresses of the two magazines, directed two envelopes, and set
herself to writing the first of her two letters. That done, she copied
the letter, word for word--except for the title of the poem submitted.

It was a long letter. Susan told first of Keith and his misfortune,
and the imperative need of money for the operation. Then she told
something of herself, and of her habit of turning everything into
rhyme; for she felt it due to them, she said, that they know something
of the person with whom they were dealing. She touched again on the