But the summer had been a very happy one, too—a time of glad living with summer suns and skies, a time of keen delight in wholesome¹ things; a time of renewing and deepening of old friendships; a time in which she had learned to live more nobly, to work more patiently, to play more heartily².

“All life lessons are not learned at college,” she thought. “Life teaches them everywhere.”

But alas³, the final week of that pleasant vacation was spoiled for Anne, by one of those impish happenings which are like a dream turned upside down.

“Been writing any more stories lately?” inquired Mr. Harrison genially⁴ one evening when Anne was taking tea with him and Mrs. Harrison.

“No,” answered Anne, rather crisply.

“Well, no offense⁵ meant. Mrs. Hiram Sloane told me the other day that a big envelope addressed to the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company of Montreal had been dropped into the post office box a month ago, and she suspicioned that somebody was trying for the prize they’d offered for the best story that introduced the name of their baking powder. She said it wasn’t addressed in your writing, but I thought maybe it was you.”

“Indeed, no! I saw the prize offer, but I’d never dream of competing for it. I think it would be perfectly⁶ disgraceful to write a story to advertise a baking powder. It would be almost as bad as Judson Parker’s patent medicine fence.”

So spake Anne loftily, little dreaming of the valley of humiliation⁷ awaiting her. That very evening Diana popped into the porch gable, bright-eyed and

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