“What is it?” demanded Helen.  “You look so funny.  There’s no—­nobody dead?”

“Do I look like that?” asked Ruth.  “Far from it!  Just look at these, dear,” and she thrust both the note and the check into Helen’s hands.  “I believe I’ve struck it!”

“Struck what?” demanded her puzzled chum.

“‘Great oaks from little acorns grow’ sure enough!  Eureka!  I have it,” Ruth cried.  “I believe I know how we all—­every girl in Briarwood—­can help earn the money to rebuild the West Dormitory.”

CHAPTER XIII

THE IDEA IS BORN

“What?  What? What?” Helen cried, as she gazed, wide-eyed, at the check and at Mr. Hammond’s letter.

The check for twenty-five dollars there could be no mistake about; and she scanned the moving picture man’s enthusiastic letter shortly, for it was brief.  But Helen quite misunderstood the well-spring of Ruth’s sudden joy.

“Oh, Ruthie Fielding!” she gasped.  “What have you done now?” and she hugged her chum delightedly.  “How wonderful! That was the secret between you and that Mr. Hammond, was it?”

“Yes,” admitted Ruth.

“And you’ve written a real moving picture?”

“That is it—­exactly.  A one reel picture,” and Ruth laughed.

“And he says he will produce it at once,” sighed Helen.

“So Mr. Hammond says.  It’s very nice of him.”

“Oh, Ruth!” cried Helen, hugging her again.

“Oh, Helen!” responded Ruth, in sheer delight.

“You’re famous—­really famous!” said Ruth’s chum, with sudden solemnity.

Ruth’s clear laughter rang out spontaneously.

“Well, you are!”

“Not yet.”

“But you’ve earned twenty-five dollars writing that play.  Only think of that!  And you can give it to the dormitory fund.  Is that what you are so pleased about?  Mercy, Ruth! you don’t expect us all to set about writing picture plays and selling them to Mr. Hammond?”

“No,” said Ruth, more seriously.  “I guess that wouldn’t do.”

“Then what do you mean about every girl at Briarwood helping in this way toward the fund?” Helen asked, puzzled.  “At any rate, twenty-five dollars will help.”

“But I sha’n’t do that!” cried Ruth.

“Sha’n’t do what?”

“I shall not give this precious twenty-five dollars to any dormitory fund—­no, indeed!” and Ruth clasped the check to her bosom.  “The first money I ever earned with my pen?  I guess not!  That twenty-five dollars goes into the bank, my dear.”

“Goodness!  You needn’t be so emphatic about it,” protested Helen.

“I am going to open a special account,” said Ruth, proudly.  “This will be credited to the fact that R.F. can actually make something with her brains, my lady.  What do you think?”

“But how is it going to help the dormitory fund, then?” demanded her chum.