the professor's, and struggled through its tangled and much abbreviated
chirography, looking up finally with a pale, puzzled, yet radiant face.
"I can't quite make it out. I think--it seems to say that my letter has
done him much good; he says it was read before the society, and is
printed somewhere."

"Perhaps it's in that paper book," suggested Molly, looking up from a
shell box she was making.

"This? why, yes; I didn't think,"--tearing it open. "This seems to be a
Report of the Twelfth Annual Meeting"--

"Oh, do look and see if it's got your letter in!" broke in impatient
Molly, springing up, and letting her shells drop in a pearly shower to
the floor.

Sara turned the leaves excitedly, then stopped; and her sweet face
flushed a vivid crimson.

"It is--it is here--in print--just as I wrote it; and it says, 'Letter
from Miss Sara Olmstead, of Killamet, in which the vexed question is
definitely settled.'"

Many of us have experienced the tingling rapture of seeing our opinions
in print for the first time; but it could be to few what it was to Sara,
isolated, and of humble station as she was. It seemed as if that thrill
of pleasure came from the very centre of her being, and tingled even to
her finger-tips, while Morton and Molly, more demonstrative, if not more
glad, danced about her with regular whoops of delight; after which the
former mounted an uncertain chair for a rostrum, and read off the