doors.) At first we didn’t know what to do: then I remembered that Aunt Elizabeth had brought Aunt Ruth a big box of candles last week for my use. I tore home and got them—Aunt Ruth being out—and we stuck them all around the room. So we had our Pow-wow after all and it was a brilliant success. We had such fun improvising candle holders that we got off to a good start, and somehow the candle-light was so much more friendly and inspiring than gas. We all seemed to be able to think of wittier things to say. Everybody was supposed to make a speech on any subject he or she wished. Perry made the speech of the evening. He had prepared a speech on ‘Canadian History’—very sensible and, I suspect, dull; but at the last minute he changed his mind and spoke on ‘candles’—just making it up as he went along, telling of all the candles he saw in different lands when he was a little boy sailing with his father. It was so witty and interesting that we sat enthralled and I think the students will forget about French fashions and the old farmer who left the hoeing and weeding to God.
“Aunt Ruth hasn’t found out about the candles yet, as the old box isn’t quite empty. When I go to New Moon tomorrow night I’ll coax Aunt Laura to give me another box—I know she will—and I’ll bring them to Aunt Ruth.
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“Today there was a hateful, long, fat envelope for me in the mail. Golden Hours had sent my story back. The accompanying rejection slip said:
“‘We have read your story with interest, and regret to say that we cannot accept it for publication at the present time.’
“At first I tried to extract a little comfort from the fact that they had read it with ‘keen interest.’ Then it came home to me that the rejection slip was a printed one, so of course it is just what they send with all rejected manuscripts.
