and has to pay for a woman to come in during the day to lend a hand, all on fifty dollars a week, in an era of post-bellum prices, wrist watches have to wait. However, as Ann made the daily correction in her laggard clock she used to say to herself:
"There's a better time coming." She was not devoid of humour, you see.
Then the office boy would bring in the big pile of morning mail, grinning as he laid it on the pull-out slide of her desk. He may be excused for grinning, because Ann was the kind of creature who would bring a smile to the surliest face. She was just a nice size, with a face that was both charming and sensible, and merry brown eyes (when it wasn't too close to the first of the month). Also, that pile of mail was rather amusing. Those letters, so many of them written on cheap pink or blue stationery and addressed in unsophisticated handwriting, were not directed to Miss Ann Austin, but to "Cynthia," and the office boy knew pretty well the kind of messages that were in them. For Ann, under the pseudonym of "Cynthia," conducted the Planet's department of Advice to the Lovelorn, and daily several score of puzzled or distracted beings bared their hearts to her. The pile of letters was growing bigger, too. The Planet, which was not a very flourishing paper
