“You did just right,” declared the House Plant, warmly, confirmed in her opinion by a murmur of assent from the girls. “Right!” echoed the Infant. “Babbie, you are the dearest old goose in the world. You will never succeed nor make any money if you take an attitude like that.” “I shall not write for money,” declared Barbara, beginning to pace the floor. “What is money, compared to accomplishment? I shall go home, shut myself up, and write, write, write—until recognition comes to me. I am sure it will come if I work and wait!” She flung her head back with her usual independent gesture, and the crimson color rose in her cheeks. And the girls eyed, a little awesomely, this splendid prodigy, in whose powers they believed with that absolute, unquestioning faith which is found only in youth and college. The short silence was broken almost immediately by the Infant. “Are you going to have a chance to write at home, undisturbed?” she asked. “Our house is a perfect Bedlam all the time. Two young sisters and a raft of brothers keep me occupied every minute.” “There are four children younger than I, too,” answered Barbara. “But do you suppose that I am going to allow them to come between me and my life-work? It would not be right; and my mother would never permit it.” “Mine would,” said the Infant, gloomily. “She thinks it is the mission of an elder sister to help manage those who have the luck to be younger and less responsible. I wish your mother could have come to graduation, Babbie. She might have converted my mother to her standpoint.” “I wish she had come,” said Barbara, wistfully. “It seems as if she might have managed some way.” Her mind flew back to the quiet little Western town,—a thousand miles away; to the household full of children, presided over by that serene, sweet-faced mother. Why could not that mother have left the children with some one, and have come to see her eldest daughter graduate “with honor”? “What a splendid thing it is to have a real gift to develop, like Babbie’s,” sighed the House Plant. Barbara looked uncomfortable. “You all have them,” she said. “I think I talk about mine more than the rest of you.” “You may give us all presentation copies of your magnum opus,” announced the Infant, mercenarily. “You will come forth from your lair—I mean workroom—a dozen years hence, and find us all living happy, commonplace lives. The House Plant here will be fulfilling her name by raising six Peter Thompson children and embroidering lingerie waists. Atalanta,—by the way, girls, mother asked me why we called that very slow-moving girl Atalanta, and I told her I was ashamed to think that she should ask such a question,—well, Atalanta will marry that Yale individual who never took his eyes off her at Class-Day march. And I think you are mean not to tell us, Atalanta, when we know you’re engaged.” The Infant threw a spoon at her blushing friend, who unexpectedly justified her nickname by dodging it.