way, laughter in her eyes—"Lizzie, my dear, I want you to bring your typewriter in here and take a letter. I'm going to report Old Doc Ross to the board, I've been threatening to do it for a year. I don't believe the old villain's any more a doctor than I am. He's got to get out of this community with his bulldozing and quackery."
"Right now, pop?"
"Right now," the major replied, emphatically.
"We'll burn him up," Elizabeth said, turning away to get her machine.
"Dr. Hall will help us with the proper phraseology," Major Cottrell announced, rather than requested.
"And the typewriter, if I may?"
"Sure," Elizabeth agreed cheerfully. "Right this way—right along this way."
Mrs. Cottrell attended, for the sake of propriety, smiling appreciatively, young at heart as she was thirty years ago, the expedition leading into Elizabeth's boudoir, where the typewriter stood beside a window, with something in it that looked like verse. This the young lady snatched out of the roller with a rip, and sequestered in a drawer of her commode, which stood open. She slammed the drawer shut on its poetic, as well as its material, secrets, some of which had stood revealed in white and pink, laughing in gay relief, a teasing, challenging gladness in her eyes.
"'Roses is red, and vi'lets is blue'," said Dr. Hall.
"It was not—it was not!" Elizabeth protested, redder than any amount of roses that could be imagined, and lovelier—thought Dr. Hall—by far.
What of this Elizabeth? he wondered, following after her with typewriter and stand, she going ahead with
