ce and Lorraine
so devoted to each other? I read that a philanthropist of world renown,
a woman whose splendid service had been praised the country over, was
quoted as saying she would give up her public life a second time and
choose the seclusion and the joy of a home of her own. At first I
stoutly said to myself, "Well, anyhow, _I_ shall not run to cover. I
needed no one two years ago. Why should I now?" Why, indeed? A nest of
gray hairs, discovered not long after, answered me. They set me to
thinking in earnest. Gray hairs! Growing old! Creative years slipping
by! Good heavens--was there danger that my life would become stark and
empty too? I had chosen the mountain trail. Had I lost then the joy and
the comfort of the nestling house and curling smoke? There were still
interesting contracts of course, engrossing work. There was still the
success of Van de Vere's to live for, but the ecstasy had all faded by
the time I first realized that I was no longer a young girl.

Mrs. Sewall never came again to the shop after that single call. I was
told she was in Europe. I never heard from her. Her son--poor Breck--had
died at sea when a huge and luxurious ocean liner had tragically plunged
into fathoms of water. I learned that an English girl had become Mrs.
Sewall's companion. They were occupying the house in England. No doubt
they were very happy together. Sometimes it would sweep over me with
distressing reality that nobody really needed me--Breck, or Mrs. Sewall,
or self-sufficient Bob in his beloved West. Bob was fast becoming
nothing but a memory to me. If I thought of him at all it was as if my
mind gazed at him through the wrong end of a pair of opera glasses. He
seemed miles away. He must have come to New York occasionally but he
didn't look me up. I heard of his activities indirectly through Lucy and
Will. With the help of the women voters he had succeeded in cleaning out
a board of aldermen, and now the women wanted him to run for mayor. This
all interested me, but it didn't make me long for Bob. I wasn't
conscious of wanting anything specific. My discontent was simply a
vague, empty feeling, a good deal like being hungry, when no food you
can call to mind seems to be what you want.

Mrs. Scot-Williams of her own accord suggested a vacation of two months
for me. I know she must have observed that my spirits had fallen below
normal. Mrs. Scot-Williams said she was afraid I had been working too
steadily, and needed