“Why don’t you say something, Bab?” queried Ruth, feeling slightly offended at Bab’s silence.  “Can’t you say you wish the same thing that I do, and that you believe our motor trips will last forever?”

A knock at the door interrupted Bab’s answer.  When she went to open it a maid handed her three letters.  Two of them were for Ruth and one for Barbara.

Ruth opened her letters quickly.  The handwriting on one of them was her Aunt Sallie’s.  The other was from Ruth’s father.

The postmark on Bab’s letter was unfamiliar, however, so she did not trouble to open it, until she heard what Ruth had to say.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Ruth ejaculated.  “See here, Bab, Aunt Sallie writes us that she cannot come on to Washington.  She has rheumatism, or something, in her shoulder and does not want to make the long trip.  She says I had better come home in a week or ten days, and that Father will probably come for me.  Of course, Aunt Sallie sends love and kisses all around to her ‘Automobile Girls.’  She ends by declaring I must bring you home with me.”

Bab gave a deep sigh.  “I do wish Miss Sallie had been here with us,” she murmured.

Ruth looked reflective.  “Have you any special reason for needing Aunt Sallie, Bab?  I have an idea you have something on your mind.  Won’t I do for your confidant!”

“Yes, you will, Ruth!” Bab said slowly, turning her face to hide her painful embarrassment.  “Ruth will you—­”

Bab had picked up her own letter.  More to gain time than for any other reason, she opened it idly.  A piece of paper fluttered out on the bed, which Ruth picked up.

“Why, Bab!” she cried.  “Look!  Here is a check for fifty dollars!  And there is some strange name on it that I never heard of before.”

But Ruth could not speak again, for Bab had thrown her arms about her and was embracing her excitedly.

“Oh, Ruth, I am so glad, I am so glad!” Bab exclaimed, half laughing, half crying.  “Just think of it—­fifty dollars!  And just now of all times.  I never dreamed of such luck coming to me.  It is just too wonderful!”

“Barbara Thurston, will you be quiet and tell me what has happened to you?” Ruth insisted.  “You haven’t lost your wits, have you, child?”

“No, I have found them,” Bab declared.  “More wits than I ever dreamed I had.  Now, Ruth, don’t be cross with me because I never confided this to you before.  But I have not told a single person until to-day, not even Mother or Mollie.  Months before I came to Washington, just before school commenced, I saw a notice in a newspaper, saying that a prize would be given for a short story written by a schoolgirl between the ages of sixteen and eighteen.  So, up in the little attic at Laurel Cottage, I wrote a story.  I worked on it for days and days, and then I sent it off to the publisher.  I was ashamed to tell any one that I had written it, and never dreamed I should hear of it again.  But now I have won the prize of fifty dollars,”