“But that’s all right,” said Patsy, smiling at the praise; “we’d never have dared to start a newspaper anywhere else, because a journal that will do for Millville might not make a hit if it bumped against experienced competition.”

“We were woefully ignorant when we began, a few weeks ago,” commented Beth, glancing with pride at her latest editorial, which she thought had caught the oracular tone of the big city newspapers.

“And we’re not expert journalists, even yet,” added Louise, with a sigh.  “We’ve improved, to be sure; but I imagine there is still lots of room for improvement.”

“One trouble,” said Patsy, “is that every inhabitant of Millville wants to see his or her name in print every day, whether he or she has done anything worthy of publication or not.  If the name isn’t printed, we’ve made an enemy; and, if it is, the paper is sure to suffer more or less ridicule.”

“That is quite true, my dear,” responded Louise, the reporter.  “I’ve said everything, about every one of them, that has ever happened, or threatened to happen, since we started the paper, and it is driving me crazy to discover anything more about these stupid natives that will do to print.”

Hetty had overheard this conversation and now looked up with a smile.

“Has your ‘local happenings’ column been prepared for to-morrow, Mrs. Weldon?” she inquired.

“No; I’m about to start out to unearth some items,” replied Louise, wearily.

“Let me do it for you.  I’ve an hour or so to spare and I won’t need to leave my desk,” suggested the artist.

“It is my duty, you know, Hetty, and I’ve no right to evade it.”

“Evade it for to-day.  Go home and rest.  I’ll do your column for to-morrow, and after the vacation you can tackle the thrilling situations with better courage.”

“Thank you, Hetty.  But I won’t go home.  I’ll wait here to see Fogerty.”

“Fogerty!” exclaimed the artist, with a start of surprise.  “Do you mean the detective?”

“Yes,” said Louise, regretting she had inadvertently mentioned the name.

“But what is there now to detect?” asked Hetty suspiciously.  “Our troubles seem ended with the burning of the mill and the flitting of Skeelty and his workmen.”

Louise hardly knew how to reply; but Patsy, who trusted the queer girl artist, said quite frankly: 

“There remains the mystery of Thursday Smith to fathom, you know.”

Hetty flushed and an indignant look swept over her face.

“What right has anyone to solve that mystery?” she asked defiantly.  “Isn’t that Thursday Smith’s own business?”

“Perhaps,” returned Patsy, somewhat amused; “but Smith hasn’t been able to discover who he is—­or was, rather—­and seems really anxious to know.”

Hetty bent over her desk for a time.  Then she looked up and her thin features were white and drawn with anxiety.