"In New York，"she said，as they started on，"I'vesometimes hobnobbeda with editors；but this is somewhat different.""In what way？"asked Patsy casually.
"You're not real journalists，you know，and—""Why aren't we journalists ？"asked Louise.
For a moment Hetty was puzzled how to reply.
"You are doing very good editorial work，"she said mendaci—ouslya，"but，after all，you are only playing at journalism.The real journalist—as I know him—is a Bohemian；a font of cleverness running to waste；a reckless，tender—hearted，jolly，careless ne'er—do—well who works like a Trojan and plays like a child.He is very sophisticated at his desk and very artless when he dives into the underworldb for rest and recreation.He lives at high tension，scintillates，burns his red fire without discrimination and is shortly extinguished.You are not like that.You can't even sympathize with that sort of person.But I can，for I'm cut from a remnantc of the same cloth.""Scintillated all you want to，Hetty，"cried Patsy with a laugh；"but you're not going to be extinguished.For we，the imitation journalists，have taken you under our wings.There's no underworld at Millville，and the only excitement we can furnish just now is a night with us at the old farm.""That，"replied Hetty，"is indeed a real excitement.You can't quite understand it，perhaps；but it's so—so very different from what I'm accustomed to."Uncle John welcomed the girl artist cordiallya and under his hospitable roof the waif soon felt at ease.At dinner the conversation turned upon Thursday Smith and his peculiar experience.Beth asked Hetty if she knew the man.
"Yes，"replied the girl；"I've seen him at the office andwe've exchanged a word or two.But he boards with Thorne，the liveryman，and not at the hotel.""You have never seen him before you met him here ？""Never.""I wonder，"said Louise musingly，"if he is quite right inhis mind.All this story may be an hallucination，you know.""He's a very clever fellow，"asserted Hetty，"and such aloss of memory is by no means so uncommon as you think.Our brains are queer things—mine is，I know—and it doesn't take much to throw their machinery out of gear.Once I knew a reporter who was worried and over—worked.He came to the of？ce one morning and said he was George Washington，the Commander of the Continental Army.In all other ways he was sane enough，and we humored him and called him 'General.'At the end of three months the idea quit him as suddenly as it had come on，and he was not only normal but greatly restored in strength of intellect through the experience.Perhaps some of the overworked brain cells had taken a rest and renewed their energy.It would not surprise me if some day Thursday Smith suddenly remembered who he was."［Footnote：This anecdote is true.—Author.］"In the meantime，"said Uncle John，"I'm going to make an effort to discover his identity.""In what way，Uncle？"asked Patsy.
"I'll set Fogerty，who is a clever detective，at work.No man can disappear from his customary haunts without leaving some sort of a record behind him，and Fogerty may be able to uncover the mystery in a short time.""Then we'll lose our pressman，"declared Beth；"for I'mpositive that Thursday Smith was a person of some importance in his past life."
