"Well!" he said musingly, "well, well, well, well!" Then after a long silence he took up his pen and began the "Answers to Correspondents." "_Dieu-donnee._--Your hair is a very nice colour. I should not advise Aureoline. "_Shy Fairy._--By all means consult your mother. Heliotrope would suit your complexion, if it is, as you say, of a brilliant fairness. "_Contadina._--No, I should not advise scarlet velvet with the pale blue. Try myrtle green." Presently he threw down the pen. "I suppose I shall never see her again," he said, and he actually sighed. But he did see her again. For on her way home poor Kitty's imagination suddenly spread its wings and alighted accurately on the truth; she formed a sufficiently vivid picture of what had happened in the office after she left. She _knew_ that those other young men--"the pigs," she called them to herself--had speculated as to whether she was "Little One," who wanted to make her hair curl, and to know whether short waists would be worn; or "Moss Rose," who was anxious about her complexion, and the proper way to treat a jibbing sweetheart. So that very night she wrote a note to Aunt Kate, but she did not sign it "Sweet Nancy" in the old manner, and she did not disguise her hand. She signed it George Thompson, in inverted commas, and she said that she would call on Thursday. And on Thursday she called. And was shown into the editor's room at once. The editor rose to greet her. "Aunt Kate is not here," said he hurriedly; "but if you can spare a few moments I should like to talk to you about business; I did not know the other day that you were the author of that charming story 'Evelyn's Error.'" The room was clear of tobacco smoke--the editor was alone--some red roses lay on the table. Kitty caught herself wondering for whom he had bought them. The chair he offered her was carefully dusted. She took it--and he began to talk about her story; criticising, praising, blaming, and that so skilfully that criticism seemed a subtle flattery, and the very blame conveyed a compliment. Then he asked for more stories. And a new heaven and a new earth seemed to unroll before the girl's eyes. If she could only write--and succeed--and---- "Will you come again?" he said at last. "Aunt Kate----" "Oh," she said, with eyes shining softly, "it doesn't matter about Aunt Kate now! I shall be so busy trying to write stories." "The fact is----" said the editor slowly, racking his brains for a reason that should bring her to the office again--"the fact is--_I_ am Aunt Kate." Kitty sprang to her feet. Her face flamed scarlet. She stood silent a moment. Then: "_You?_" she cried. "Oh, it's _not_ fair--it's mean--it's shameful! Oh--how could you! And girls write to _you_--and they think it's a woman--and they tell you about their troubles. It's horrible! It's underhand--it's abominable! I hate you for it. Every one ought to know. I shall write to the papers."