"Father is ill," began Dorothy weakly, for inside the office its difficulties seemed to crush her. "And we're going to get the paper out," blurted Tavia, trying to grasp the wonders of a real newspaper office in a single sweeping glance. "Can't he come down?" and the young man's voice betrayed his anxiety. "I'm afraid not," went on Dorothy. "He said we were to do the best we could. I was to help--" "And I guess I'm to sell the papers. Hurry up and print some. Is this the printing press?" Tavia rattled on. "But the parade," demurred Ralph, "it is not even written. I can manage the press well enough, but our reporter Mr. Thomas, has not come in this morning. I suppose yesterday was too much for him." "I think I could write up the parade," ventured Dorothy. "I have often helped father read proof, you know." "Perhaps you can," assented Ralph. "Here is a pencil and some copy paper. You had better try at once, as I will have to go to press earlier than usual to allow for 'snags,'" and he smiled to apologize for the newspaper slang. Dorothy sat down at her father's desk. Somehow, she felt a confidence in her efforts when seated there, where he had worked so faithfully, and successfully, too, for the Bugle sounded always the note of truth and sincerity. She started at once to write up the parade. She should be careful, of course, not to mention the major's name, or her own (her father never did) and she hoped she could at least make a good composition or essay on Memorial Day. Dorothy worked earnestly, for she meant to have that issue of the paper up to the mark, if her labors could bring it there. Ralph had rolled up his sleeves again, and was busy with the press. Tavia was "nosing around," as she expressed it. The door opened suddenly and little Johnnie Travers rushed in. "The major sent me--to tell you--" and he had to get a new breath in somehow--"to tell you that old Mrs. Douglass is--is dead!" he finally managed to say. "He wants you to be sure to--to--put her in the paper." "Nothing but live stuff in this paper, Johnnie dear," spoke up Tavia. "Mrs. Douglass was bad enough alive--but dead! We really haven't space," and, in spite of the real seriousness of the matter, for Mrs. Douglass was an important woman in Dalton, or had been up to that morning, Ralph and Dorothy were compelled to laugh at the wit of their friend. "She was a big woman," said Ralph, adding to the mix-up in language, "and the Bugle is small. But being 'big' we cannot afford to slight her memory. There is so little time--" "I can write that," said Tavia, shaking her head with a meaning. "And I know all about Mrs. Douglass and her high fence. Also the flowers behind the boxwood. Here, Doro, give me some of that paper--" "Oh, you would have to see some of the family," interrupted Ralph. "Find out how she died, when she will be buried; if she said anything interesting--about charities, you know--" "For mine!" sang out Tavia, adjusting her hat.