of changing seasons, and a wave of nostalgia passed
over her that was like physical illness. A flower-vendor held out a tray
of wilted jonquils. She bought a few of them--only a few, because she
must needs be careful of her money--and held them to her face hungrily.
They brought to her mind gardens where such flowers were already pushing
their fat green buds up out of the fragrant earth--Storm garden,
Philip's little patch of bloom--encouraged by a breeze that was full of
sunlight. She saw the birds that flitted to and fro over those gardens
upon their busy errands: sweet-whistling cardinals, bluebirds with rosy
breasts, exquisite as butterflies; the flashing circles of white made by
mocking-birds' wings as they soar and swoop. The noisy street faded from
her eyes and ears, and she moved among the crowd as if she were walking
a Kentucky lane, with the March wind in her hair.

So she was not at all surprised to meet a familiar face, and murmured
absently, her thoughts on other matters, "That you, Mag?"

Then she came to herself with a start. The woman to whom she had spoken
had passed quickly. Jacqueline wheeled in time to catch a glimpse of her
in the crowd; a flashily dressed, too-stylish figure, mincing along on
very high heels, and dangling in one hand a gilt-mesh bag. The paint
that made a mask of her face, the heavy black rimming her eyes, the very
perfume that left its trail behind her, told their own story. But the
carriage of the head, the free, country-girl's swing of the shoulders,
were unmistakable. It was Mag Henderson.

Jacqueline followed her, half running. She had so longed for the sight
of a face from home that the thought of losing her seemed unbearable. It
did not matter to Kate Kildare's daughter that this was a woman of the
streets, a hopeless derelict. She remembered only that she had once been
her faithful, devoted ally.

But it mattered to Mag Henderson. Impossible that she had failed to
recognize Jacqueline; impossible that she did not hear the clear,
ringing voice crying after her, "Mag, wait for me, wait!"

Her cheeks were flushed with something besides rouge, the loose lips
trembled. She, too, knew what it was to be hungry for the sight of a
face from home.... Perhaps the recording angel put it down to Mag
Henderson's account that she did not once hesitate, did not once look
back, moving on so rapidly that at last Jacqueline, impeded by the
staring throng, breathless, almost weeping in he