his hunting notes in such a striking style, and regarded her as his special protege, was anxious to have the whole school know what a gifted girl she was.  He had a conference with the principal, and as a result Migwan was asked to read her poem at the rhetorical exercises in the auditorium that day.  When she finished the applause was deafening, and with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes she ran from the stage.  There were distinguished visitors at school that day, representatives of a national organization who had come to address the scholars, and they came up to Migwan after she had read her poem to be introduced and offer congratulations.  Teachers stopped her in the hall to tell her how bright she was, and the other pupils regarded her with great respect.  Migwan was the lion of the hour.

She hurried home on flying feet and danced into the house waving the paper.  “Oh, mother,” she called, as soon as she was inside the door, “guess what I’ve got to show you!” Her mother was not in the kitchen and she ran through the house looking for her.  “Oh, mother,” she called, “oh, moth—­why, what’s the matter?” she asked, stopping in surprise in the sitting room door.  Mrs. Gardiner lay on the couch, and beside her sat the family doctor.  Betty stood by looking very much frightened.  Mrs. Gardiner looked up as Migwan came in.  “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to speak lightly; “just a little spell.”

“Mother has to go to the hospital,” said Betty in a scared voice.

“Just a little operation,” said Mrs. Gardiner hastily, as Migwan looked ready to drop.  “Nothing serious—­very.”

Migwan’s hour of triumph was completely forgotten in the anxiety of the next few days.  Her mother rallied slowly from the operation, and it looked as though she would have to remain in the hospital a long time.  It was impossible to meet this added expense from their little income, and Migwan, setting her teeth bravely, drew the remainder of her college money from the bank to pay the hospital and surgeon’s bills.  Then she set to work with redoubled zeal to write something which would sell.  So far everything she had sent out had come back promptly.  For a long time certain advertisements in the magazines had been holding her attention.  They read something like this:  “Write Moving Picture Plays.  Bring $50 to $100 each.  We teach you how by an infallible method.  Anybody can do it.  Full particulars sent for a postage stamp.”  Migwan had seen quite a few picture plays, many of them miserably poor, and felt that she could write better ones than some, or at least just as good.  She wrote to the address given in one of the advertisements, asking for “full particulars.”  Back came a letter couched in the most glowing terms, which Migwan was not experienced enough to recognize as a multigraphed copy, which stated that the writer had noticed in her letter of inquiry a literary ability well worth cultivating, and he would feel himself highly honored to be allowed to teach her to write