way—I don’t feel human. When Dr. McIntyre spoke about something using me as an instrument, I went cold all over. It seemed to me that while I was asleep some other intelligence must have taken possession of my body and drawn that picture.”
“It was your writing,” said Ilse.
“Oh, I’m not going to talk of it—or think of it. I’m going to forget it. Don’t ever speak of it to me again, Ilse.”
“Shrewsbury,
“October 3, 19—
“I have finished canvassing my allotted portion of our fair province—I have the banner list of all the canvassers—and I have made almost enough out of my commissions to pay for my books for my whole Junior year. When I told Aunt Ruth this she did not sniff. I consider that a fact worth recording.
“Today my story, The Sands of Time, came back from Merton’s Magazine. But the rejection slip was typewritten, not printed. Typewriting doesn’t seem quite as insulting as print, some way.
“‘We have read your story with interest, and regret to say that we cannot accept it for publication at the present time.’
“If they meant that ‘with interest,’ it is a little encouragement. But were they only trying to soften the blow?
“Ilse and I were notified recently that there were nine vacancies in the Skull and Owl and that we had been put on the list of those who might apply for membership. So we did. It is considered a great thing in school to be a Skull and Owl.
