laughed. "I'm not sure that I know what a copyright is."

He laughed--a laugh which belonged with his voice. "Mr. Littletree
isn't as lucid as he thinks he is. I've been here a week or so, and
picked up a few things you might like to know."

He pulled his chair closer to her table then and gave her a lesson in
the making of copy. Edna Willard was never one-half so attractive as
when absorbed in a thing which someone was showing her how to do. Her
hazel eyes would widen and glisten with the joy of comprehending; her
cheeks would flush a deeper pink with the coming of new light, her
mouth would part in a child-like way it had forgotten to outgrow,
her head would nod gleefully in token that she understood, and she
had a way of pulling at her wavy hair and making it more wavy than
it had been before. The man at the next table was a long time in
explaining the making of a dictionary. He spoke in low tones, often
looking at the figure of the man in the skull cap, who was sitting
with his back to them, looking over copy. Once she cried, excitedly:
"Oh--I _see_!" and he warned, "S--h!" explaining, "Let him think
you got it all from him. It will give you a better stand-in." She
nodded, appreciatively, and felt very well acquainted with this kind
man whose voice made her think of something--called to something--she
did not just know what.

After that she became so absorbed in lexicography that when the men
began putting away their things it was hard to realise that the
morning had gone. It was a new and difficult game, the evasion of
the copyright furnishing the stimulus of a hazard.

The man at the next table had been watching her with an amused