"My wife," he said, "thinks we could train this Rayefsky girl to write. If we could get some one to put a crimp in Lilian Leberwurtz' 'Balm for Busted Bussums,' it would help a lot. Look over her copy when it comes in. Buy enough anyhow to pay her for her trouble. And if it shows any promise, see what you can make of her. And keep me informed." Yetta floated out of _The Star_ office on clouds. In a sudden flame of enthusiasm she pictured herself as a great author. But as she went home a horrible doubt struck her--she might fail. The doubt increased as she laid out a sheet of paper. After much hesitation and several false starts, she decided to stick as closely as might be to reality. She wrote the story of one of her girls who, although she worked on the highest-priced opera-cloaks, was so poor that she had never worn any wrap but a frayed old shawl. It was natural for Yetta to be simple and direct. The copious notes she had written in connection with her study had taught her some familiarity with her pen. Above all, her public speaking had helped her. It had taught her to think ahead and plan her climax in advance. The women who would read the magazine page were--or had been--shop-girls, such as the audiences she spoke to night after night. And Mr. Brace had told her to write just as she talked. At last she mailed three sketches. Within twenty-four hours she received a letter from Mr. Brace asking her to come and talk them over. She had a difficult time looking unconcerned as she entered _The Star_ office. Her stories had seemed rather good when she had finished them, but they had so sunk in her estimation by this time that she wished she had not written them. This sinking process was most rapid during the few minutes she was kept waiting on a bench in the big reporters' room outside the glass door of Mr. Brace's private office. There were long tables on two sides of the room; they were divided off into sections by little railings. Most of the places were filled by reporters writing feverishly on yellow copy paper or banging away at typewriters. Boys and men rushed about, carrying copy or proof in and out of the various glass doors about the room. Almost every one looked curiously at Yetta and the others on the waiting bench. There were three people ahead of her: a woman who looked like an actress, a white-haired old man, with a beard almost to his belt. He held a heavy manuscript on his knees with great care, evidently afraid some one would steal it. Next to her was a perspiring young curate in a clerical collar. Presently Mr. Brace ushered a disappointed poet out of his office and called "Miss Rayefsky." "By appointment," he added, as those who were ahead of her moved restlessly in protest.