"There must be something," continued Mrs. Oakley. "When I was your age I had taught myself bookkeeping, shorthand, and typewriting. What can you do? Can you use a typewriter?" Blessed word! "Yes," said Betty promptly. "Well?" "Not very well?" "H'm. Well, I expect you will do it well enough for Mr. Renshaw--on my recommendation. I'll give you a letter to him. He is the editor of a small weekly paper. I don't know how much he will offer you, but take it and _work!_ You'll find him pleasant. I have met him at charity organization meetings on the East Side. He's useful at the entertainments--does conjuring tricks--stupid, but they seem to amuse people. You'll find him pleasant. There." She had been writing the letter of introduction during the course of these remarks. At the last word she blotted it, and placed it in an envelope. "That's the address," she said. "J. Brabazon Renshaw, Office of _Peaceful Moments_. Take it to him now. Good-by." It was as if she were ashamed of her late display of emotion. She spoke abruptly, and her pale eyes were expressionless. Betty thanked her and turned to go. "Tell me how you get on," said Mrs. Oakley. "Yes," said Betty. "And _work_. Keep on working!" There was a momentary return of her former manner as she spoke the words, and Betty wavered. She longed to say something comforting, something that would show that she understood. Mrs. Oakley had taken up the feather duster again. "Steena will show you out," she said curtly. And Betty was aware of the stolid Swede in the doorway. The interview was plainly at an end. "Good-by, Aunt," she said, "and thank you ever so much--for everything." CHAPTER XII "PEACEFUL MOMENTS" The man in the street did not appear to know it, but a great crisis was imminent in New York journalism. Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithely on Broadway. Newsboys shouted their mystic slogan, "Wuxtry!" with undiminished vim. Society thronged Fifth Avenue without a furrow on its brow. At a thousand street corners a thousand policemen preserved their air of massive superiority to the things of this world. Of all the four million not one showed the least sign of perturbation. Nevertheless, the crisis was at hand. Mr. J. Brabazon Renshaw, Editor-in-chief of _Peaceful Moments_, was about to leave his post and start on a three-months' vacation. _Peaceful Moments_, as its name (an inspiration of Mr. Renshaw's own) was designed to imply, was a journal of the home. It was the sort of paper which the father of the family is expected to take back with him from the office and read aloud to the chicks before bedtime under the shade of the rubber plant.