She had set herself no less a task than to write a book.

The subject had come to her suddenly one morning as she lay awake in bed, and she regarded it as an inspiration.

She would make a story about The Woodlands, and bring in all the girls she knew.

It was no use struggling with a historical plot or a romance of the war--she had tried these, and stuck fast in the first chapters; it was better to employ the material close at hand, and weave her tale from the every-day incidents which happened in the school.

So she had begun, and though she floundered a little at the difficulty of transferring her impressions to paper, she was making distinct progress.
"I'd never dare to have it published, of course," she ruminated.