parks
to-morrow and be alone and talk it all out, before the concert--and
then--oh, Molly, core of my soul, heart of my heart, why should we
ever come back! BOB."

All that she could feel as she sat there motionless was a crashing
"no." The thing seemed to drive her mad by its insistence--a horrible
racking thing that all but shook her, and she chattered at it: "Why
not? Why not? Why not?" But the "no" kept roaring through her mind,
and as she heard the servant rattling the breakfast dishes in the
house, the woman shivered out of sight and ran to her room. She fell
on her knees to pray, but all she could pray was, "O God, O God, O
God, help me!" and to that prayer, as she said it, the something in
her heart kept gibbering, "Why not? Why not? Why not?" From an old box
hidden in a closet opening out of her mother's room she took Bob
Hendricks' picture,--the faded picture of a boy of twenty,--and
holding it close to her breast, stared open-lipped into the heart of
an elm tree-top. The whistle of the train brought her back to her real
world. She rose and looked at herself in the mirror, at the unromantic
face with its lines showing faintly around her eyes, grown quiet
during the dozen years that had settled her fluffy hair into sedate
waves. She smiled at the changes of the years and shook her head, and
got a grip on her normal consciousness, and after putting away the
picture and closing the box, she went downstairs to finish her work.

On the stairs she felt sure of herself, and set about to plan for the
next day, and then the tumult began, between the "no" and her soul. In
a few minutes as she worked the "no" conquered, and she said, "Bob's
crazy." She repeated it many times, and found as she repeated it that
it was mechanical and that her soul was aching again. So the morning
wore away; she gossiped with the servant a moment; a neighbour came in
on an errand; and she dressed to go down town. As she went out of the
gate, she wondered where she would be that hour the next day, and then
the struggle began again. Moreover, she bought some new
gloves--travelling gloves to match her gray dress.

In the afternoon she and Jane Barclay sat on the wide porch of the
Barclay home. "Gilmore's going to be in the city all this week," said
Jane, biting a thread in her sewing.

"Is he?" replied Molly. "I should so like to hear him. It's so poky up
at the house."

"Why don't you