going to start right in, next week—this week, if I can—at the very best business college there is in this city, and work hard. It's going to be lots of fun!"
"Oh, no, Laurel," Stella broke out. "Not that! Not that! Please. Please." Her voice pleaded, her eyes beseeched, implored. "You wouldn't do that. Say you wouldn't. Not you. It would break my heart. Say you wouldn't, dearie. Please—please." She grasped hold of Laurel's hand. "Lollie, for my sake! It would kill me, Lollie!"
Laurel drew her hand away. "Oh, come, mother. Don't be silly. Don't be a goose."
3
A stenographer! Laurel, her beautiful Laurel, shut up all day long in an office, reeking with tobacco smoke? Laurel the servant of a lot of men, taking dictation, taking orders? Laurel wearing paper cuffs and elastic bands and pencils in her hair; eating lunch out of a box with a lot of other girls, also wearing paper cuffs and elastic bands and pencils in their hair? No. No. It mustn't be. It simply mustn't be. Why, even she herself wouldn't have been a stenographer.
Stella lay wide awake in the bed beside Laurel. It was nearly two o'clock. Laurel had slept like a baby—sweetly, steadily, all night long so far. She hadn't changed her position. Twice Stella had risen and lit the light to see what time it was, had stopped a moment by the side of the bed, and gazed down upon Laurel.
"Like a lovely Sleeping Beauty, she is. Oh, my
