"I think I was born for the stage, barring the one accident of the ministry. But since that avenue of fame is closed, what shall I do? Shall I be a teacher--and if so, a teacher of what? I am not particularly clever, you know." "You are very clever, indeed, and I think you would be a wonderful teacher." "Thanks, but I have neither patience nor dignity, and all authorities agree that they are prime requisites." "You can be as patient and dignified as anybody if you want to. And you are tactful and pleasant, both good teaching qualities. I suppose you do not feel particularly drawn to any religious work, missionary, or--or pastor's assistant, or anything like that?" "I am interested in gymnasium work," said Rosalie. "It seems my only forte. I am very good at all outdoor sports, and I have a fine physique, and adore exercise." "That would be nice." "Some places I might have to teach dancing. I could handle it as one form of physical development, and if the naughty things took it into the ballroom it wouldn't be my fault, would it?" "Not--exactly--I suppose." "But I ought to have an extra year for special study somewhere after I finish college. Do you suppose we could manage it, father?" Mr. Artman looked up from his mail absently. "Yes, dear, what? I am afraid I was not paying attention." His eyes wandered back to the letter in his hand. Rosalie promptly deposited herself on his knee, pulling his arms around her. "Doris has just decided that I would be a lovely athletic director for girls if I could have a year of special training after college. Prospects, please?" "Maybe we could arrange it--I hope so. It would be fine. But--things might interfere." "Always granted, of course, dearest, but am I justified in saying it is my present plan if things do not interfere?" "Yes, to be sure, but--remember--plans have a way of going astray, dear." "Why, father, that does not sound like you." "I know, forgive me, but I do not feel like myself to-day. Look ahead to it, Rosalie, by all means, and count on it, and if it is right for you, it will come." "That is the way for a preacher to talk," said Rosalie. "Then it is all settled, isn't it?" She ran back to her chair, and her father turned anxious eyes on the letter again. He did not notice that his girls looked at him often, and very wonderingly. Presently he went to the telephone and put in a long-distance call to Chicago. Two years previous he had taken a course of study at the seminary in Chicago, and ever since had made frequent appointments with Doctor Hancock necessitating hurried trips to the city. "Some old 'prof' at the seminary, I suppose," Doris said lightly. "They won't let us preachers settle down and preach and be comfortable nowadays. They keep us up and coming every minute, studying this and studying that, and then practising what we study on the public. It is no easy matter being a preacher any more."