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Madeline listened, laughed, and swept the story into a neat pile. With it in one hand and arm in arm with Roberta, she advanced to Mary’s seat.

“Allow me,” she said with a low bow, “to present you with this rejected manuscript (which, by the way, Roberta, is stunningly good in spots), and also with a busted bubble, namely, Roberta Lewis’s literary career.”

“Yes,” put in Roberta eagerly. “Now I hope you’ll stop telling me to write. That’s my story, and the ‘Song of Sleep’ was mine too.”

“Really!” Mary’s surprise fairly overwhelmed her. “I—I can’t believe it.”

“So it wasn’t any matter about your offering to let us read it. That is, I mean I deserved to have you,” added Roberta, cheerfully intent on making her sacrifice complete.

“Here Roberta, be careful,” cried Madeline. “You’re letting her off too easily. Come on, girls, and help me to rub it in.”

“The Merry Hearts” did not cease to “rub it in” on all occasions, convenient or otherwise, as long as Mary stayed at Harding College.