the mixing of her cocoa. Swallowing some bread-and-butter, she seated herself at the typewriter, and the pit-pat-pot of the keyboard sounded without intermission for the next three hours. It was mechanical work, always the same set of sentences announcing to Messrs. Prosser's own special customers Messrs. Prosser's own exceptional bargains. In the intervals, when Sally inserted fresh paper between the rollers, she could think of the prize frock and decide upon a plan of action. She was meditating a bold step. 'When I've delivered these letters I'll visit the editor-yes, I will, and see if he won't compromise and give me ten pounds instead of the dress.' It seemed improbable-notwithstanding the rule that no exchange could be allowed that a man would not be willing to save twenty pounds if the chance were offered him.

'He'll help me out of the trouble,' she told herself time after time, summoning courage for what lay before her. Never had she worked so fast; the typewriter clattered and the little bell tinkled with the rapidity of the busy printing-presses in the opposite house. 'I must have a bit of dinner before I go out or I shall faint in the editor's room,' she told herself, as with a sigh of relief she flung on the table the American-cloth wrapper in which the letters were tied. She went to the head of the stairs and shouted the one word 'Tilder.' As there was no response, ' T-i-l-d-e-r' was shouted again.

'That's only old Stumpy ayellen,' came the voice of a child playing on the bottom step. 'Don't fash yerself about the loikes of her, Tilly; don't spoil our gaime.'

'G'arn, she ain't arf bad, she gave me a 'appenny last toime I runned an errand for 'er,' was the answer. 'Comen, miss,' was shouted up the stairs, and a tow-haired child of some twelve summers precipitated herself into Sally's room.

'Tilder, run down to Perkins and get a couple of bloaters; they sell 'em two for three ha'pence, little 'uns. Here's twopence, and you can keep the change.'

Well could Sarah afford to be generous, in a week's time perhaps -perhaps she would be sending out for a pelony sausage and new bread and a bottle of stout! It is marvellous the luxuries to be procured for five shillings. Sally got out the toasting-fork and cooked the bloaters for her dinner.

The girl was not shy; Clapham as birthplace and Digby Buildings as residence do not foster shyness; but she was too underfed to be courageous. The nearer the moment of the interview

I suppose I'd better nervous when talking

approached the less she liked the prospect. "trance" myself, and then I shall be less to the gentleman,' was her thought. So when the meal was swallowed she lay back in her chair for ten minutes with closed eyes. Now, let me see, what should one wear to interview an editor?' she asked herself. That grey of mine with the chinchilla edging is nice; I know I've worn it all the winter, but it is good enough to talk to an editor in, I'm sure. Besides, it won't do to look too well off, or he will say, "Really, Miss De Vere, one evening gown more or less can make but little difference." Now I come to think of it, that grey dress is too smart; I will wear the tweed I got at Redfern's; he might think I was a governess then. Good idea! I will be a governess; that will be a good excuse. beautifully cut skirt," she exclaimed, as she slipped the old blue serge over her head. 'I wonder what the editor will think of it; rather a smart tailor-made for a governess, I'm afraid-Redfern every stitch. Still it can't be helped, I've nothing worse,' and with these thoughts filling her head Sally picked up the bag of letters and ran down the stone staircase.

It's a

'And what name?' the office-boy asked as Sally Short's head appeared a few inches above the counter at which he was seated.

'Miss Ellaline De Vere,' came the answer in a shaky voice. 'I am the winner of the prize gown competition, and I should like to speak to the editor for a few minutes.'

In his short life the office-boy had had much experience of men and things. So without a smile he showed Miss Short into a room about the size of an ordinary cupboard, and with 'If you will wait here a minute, miss, I will see if the editor can see you,’ closed the door.

Ten minutes elapsed before the boy's return, and in that time most of Miss De Vere vanished. Before she was ushered into the editor's presence nothing remained but unattractive Sally Short, all too conscious of a very much worn serge dress and a pair of down-at-heel boots.

The editor was about to rise to greet what he expected would be some fashionable modiste—an actress, perhaps or a lady of the world. But when he saw the nervous little nonentity, standing in the doorway, he sat down again and looked at his visitor in astonishment. A moment of awkward silence ensued; Sarah

looked pitifully at the patched toes of her boots, and a crimson flush spread over her face.

'Let me see,' said the editor kindly, 'I-I did not quite catch your name.'

'Miss Short,' said Sally, in a whisper.

'Ah, I thought so! Some mistake on the boy's part. I was expecting a Miss De Vere.' He was about to press the electric button, when Sally ejaculated:

"That's me; that's my-my nom de plume.'

The editor was about to exclaim 'Heavens!' but restrained himself, and said instead, 'Then we must have a little talk; pray be seated. So you are the winner of the prize frock, eh? What do you want to see me about? Really, you know, it was a most artistic design and did you do it all yourself? The man tried to suppress the tone of incredulity in his voice, but it was hard to reconcile the poetry of the design with the shabbiness of the little figure seated in front of him.

'Are you a costume designer?' he went on, in answer to Sally's affirmative nod.

'Typist,' said Sally.

'A typist?' he repeated, in surprise. And have you ever tried your hand at designing before?

'No, no, not exactly; but I can make up them sort of things whenever I like.'

'Indeed?' said the editor, excited. Perhaps you would like a more comfortable chair.' He had noticed Sally's short legs swinging awkwardly from the high seat on which he had placed her. He pulled a low chair to his writing-table and skewed it to an angle to catch the full light of the midday sun. If there was truth in this person's tale, it was most interesting. Only he must make sure of the truth. And why do you want to see me? Everything is in order with the reward, I believe. You received an order on Madame Sylvestre this morning, did you not?'

He averted his eyes, but painted on his mind as he spoke was the picture of this all but dwarf in the prize costume.

Sally seemed to read his thoughts.

'And what use have I for an evening gown?' she broke out reproachfully. 'I want something else than the dress. I want a new typewriter; something as would save me five shillings a week for the hire of the one I use. Or I would take money-ten

pounds-if you would rather. You see, sir'-and she glanced pathetically at her short legs- the dress wouldn't be no use to anyone of my appearance. Besides, when could I wear it?'

Something in the girl's appeal touched the editor's heart. Yet he wished to prove her further. So he answered professionally: The matter, I fear, is rather out of my hands now. The arrangement of the competition lies with Madame Sylvestre; she makes the dress, all we have to do is to pay the money. You remember the rules of the competition-" in no case will money be given in lieu of the prize." I am afraid it would never do to break through our regulations.'

A hot tear splashed on to Sally's hand; the vision of tinned salmon was fast receding.

Supposing you tell me a little more about yourself. Where were you born, where have you lived? I don't expect you have been a typist always.'

But Sally had nothing to tell. Clapham till she was sixteen, the next six years in Digby Buildings, made up a life devoid of any incident save the daily struggle for bread. The editor listenedand marvelled. When she finished speaking he sent for the week's number of The Princess.'

He read aloud: Trailing skirt of bottle-green Liberty satin; tunic of bottle-green crêpe-de-chine, embroidered in bronze and emeralds, edged with bottle-green drops. Bodice of folded crêpe, tucked into the semi-Empire tunic. Transparent rucked sleeves of bronze tulle." Hum,' he said, 'it looks barbaric.'

'Is that all they say?' asked Sally, disappointed. 'I gave much more of a description; I even gave the pattern of the embroidery.' She looked over the editor's shoulder and gave a little cry. They've even drawn it wrong! The tunic should have been quite long at the back; it is so much more graceful.'

Something you've seen at the theatre?' said the editor.
'I've no money for theatres,' Sally answered.

'Well, but now, why did you use bronze for the embroidery? I should have used silver.' The editor was considered a great authority on dress. 'Silver is more suited to evening wear, it lights up better, it'

'Oh, no, no,' broke in Sally, 'silver would be all wrong! It would be the wrong note. Were the dress pink or peach or mauvebut bottle-green, it just jars, you must understand that it jars.' The girl's face was alive with interest; once more she was Miss

De Vere, designing an exclusive mode, all fear of her interlocutor gone.

'Could you design another dress like that?

Oh, yes, if I could just "trance" myself for a few minutes.' 'Do what?'

""Trance" myself-shut my eyes and think I want a dress for a ball or a party of some sort. Then it comes.'

'If this is really so, the woman is a genius,' was the editor's thought. He took from the mantelshelf the photograph of a pretty girl. This is a portrait of my daughter,' he said. 'Now let us imagine that I want a smart dress for the Riviera for her. Something a little attractive, because at Monte Carlo the ladies can wear more startling dresses than in-in Bond Street. My daughter very tall and has a mass of auburn hair. If I give you pen and paper and let you sit in my inner office for half an hour can you design a costume? '

is

'I ain't afraid to try,' said Sally simply.

Within the half-hour the details of the costume were being explained to him. It was not what the editor would have chosen ; he even went so far as to argue about the colouring. Sally could give no reason for the faith that was in her—she knew. It was useless to tell her that any colours were better than the ones she had blended; instinct, not reason, told her that hers was the wiser choice. But how beautiful she'd look in the green dress!' she added.

The editor thought so too.

'We will suppose that I break through my rules for once, that I give you ten pounds instead of the prize, and that I give my daughter the dress instead of you- '

He paused, waiting for the expected thanks. But the realisation of her hopes left Sally inarticulate.

' And suppose I offer you two pounds a week to design costumes for the middle page of "The Princess "-that will be better than a new typewriter, eh? '

'Oh, lawks!' Sally was about to exclaim in the language of Digby Buildings, but a sense of the fitness of things made her change it to My, won't I work a treat!' Two pounds a week to make real her most cherished dreams! To be paid to do that which had been the indulgence of her idle moments! To have money to spend on those little material comforts which to her would make up the sum of earthly happiness! No need any more