PART II

BOTH ENDS OF THE CANDLE

I

Catherine clicked the telephone into place on her desk and sat for a

moment with her hands folded on the piles of paper before her. Her

cheeks felt uncomfortably warm. Ridiculous, that Dr. Roberts should

have come to the door just as she told Charles where to find the shirts

he wanted! He might have found them if he had tried. She wondered

whether her voice had conveyed her embarrassment; Charles had said

good-by abruptly. He was sorry not to see her, but he had to catch the

one o'clock for Washington. No, he couldn't stop for luncheon with her.

He might be back Sunday night. She had a vivid picture of him, plowing

through drawers and closets in frantic search for things right under

his nose.

Her hand reached for the telephone. She would call him for a moment,

just for a good-by not so hasty. But Dr. Roberts, in the doorway,

clearing his throat, said, "Can you let me have those tables now, Mrs.

Hammond?" He pulled a chair to the opposite side of the desk and sat

down. Charles and the messy packing of his handbag disappeared from

Catherine's thoughts. She spread several sheets of figures between

them, the flustered shadow in her eyes gone, and hard clarity in its

place. Dr. Roberts, head of the educational section of the Lynch Bureau

of Social Welfare, was a dapper little man with a pointed beard, whose

fussy, henlike manner obscured the intelligent orderliness of his mind.

"The state laws of requirements for teachers." Catherine pointed to one

table. "County requirements, country schools. I made a separate table

for each. Now I'll work out a comparative table."

"Excellent. Clear, graphic. May I take those?" He rose. "If you aren't

working with them now?"

"No. I'm going through these catalogues now." The dusty pile was at

her elbow. "If I may have those sheets this afternoon, I'll try some

graphs."

When he had gone, Catherine's eyes rested briefly on the telephone.

Oh, well, Charles wouldn't want the interruption anyway. He would be

home again on Sunday. She opened the catalogue on top of the pile and

glanced through its pages, making swift notes on the pad under her hand.

Finally she leaned back in her chair, twisting her wrist for a glimpse

of her watch. Whew! Half past twelve, and she was to meet her sister

Margaret for luncheon. She stood a moment at the window. Beyond the

neighboring buildings the spires of the Cathedral splintered the

sunlight; a flock of pigeons whirled into view, their wings flashing

in the light, then darkening as they swirled and vanished--like the

cadence of a verse, thought Catherine. Far beneath her lay an angle

of the Avenue, with patches of shining automobile tops crawling in

opposing streams.

She gave a great sigh as she turned back to the office. A long, narrow

room, scarcely wider than the window, lined with shelves ceiling-high,

between them the flat desk piled with her work. Her work! Almost a week

of it, now, and already she had won back her old ability to draw that

thin, sliding wall of steel across her personal life, to hold herself

contained within this room and its contents.

She hadn't seen Margaret since her return from Maine. She was to meet

her at the St. Francis Luncheon Club for Working Women. As she stepped

into the sunlight of the street, the slow flowing of the emulsion of

which she was suddenly another particle, she had a sharp flash of

unreality. Was it she, walking there in her old blue suit, her rubber

heels padding with the other sounds, her eyes refocusing on distance

and color after the long morning? She loved the long, narrow channel

of the Avenue, hard, kaleidoscopic; the white clouds above the line of

buildings, the background of vivid window displays. She laughed softly

as she recalled the early days of the week. Rainy, to begin with.

She had thought, despairingly, that she couldn't swing the job. The

children stood between her and the sheets of paper. She had flown out

at noon to telephone Miss Kelly, to demand assurance that life in the

apartment hadn't gone awry in the four hours since she had left. Queer.

You seized your own bootstraps and lugged, apparently in vain, to lift

yourself from your habits of life, of thought, of constant concern,

and then, suddenly, you had done it, just when you most despaired.

She walked with a graceful, long stride, her head high. An excellent

scheme, Dr. Roberts had said. He had really entrusted her with the

entire plan for this investigation. And she could do it!

Margaret was waiting at the elevator entrance, a vivid figure in the

milling groups of befurbished stenographers and shoddier older women.

She came toward Catherine, and their hands clung for a moment. How

young she is, and invincible, thought Catherine, as they waited for

the elevator to empty its load. Margaret had Catherine's slimness

and erect height; her bright hair curled under the brim of her soft

green hat; there was something inimitably swagger about the lines of

her sage-green wool dress and loose coat, with flashes of orange in

embroidery and lining. In place of the sensitive poise of Catherine's

eyes and mouth, Margaret had a downright steadiness, an untroubled

intensity.

"How's it feel to be a wage-earner?" She hugged Catherine's arm as they

backed out of the pushing crowd into a corner of the car. "You look

elegant!"

"Scarcely that." Catherine smiled at her. "Now you do! Did you design

that color scheme?"

"I matched my best points, eyes and high lights of hair." Margaret

grinned. Her eyes were green in the shadow. "Ever lunched here? I

thought you might find it convenient. Lots of my girls come here."

They emerged at the entrance of a large room full of the clatter of

dishes and tongues.

"I'll take you in on my card to-day. If you like it, you can get one."

Margaret ushered Catherine into the tail of the line which filed slowly

ahead of them. "This is one of the gracious ladies--" Margaret shot

the half whisper over her shoulder, as she extended her green card.

"A guest, please." Catherine looked curiously at the woman behind the

small table; her nod in response to the professionally sweet smile was

curt.

"The patronesses take turns presiding," explained Margaret, as she

manipulated trays and silver. "That's the sweetest and worst. Notice

her dimonts!"

They found a table under a rear window, where they could unload

their dishes of soup and salad around the glass vase with its dusty

crêpe-paper rose.

"It's really good food," said Margaret, shooting the trays across the

table toward the maid. "And reasonable. It's not charity, though, and

the dames that run it needn't act so loving."

Two girls saw the vacant chairs at the table, and rushed for them.

One slipped her tweed coat back from shoulders amazingly conspicuous

in a beaded pink georgette blouse; the other opened her handbag for a

preliminary devotional exercise on her complexion.

Margaret hitched her chair closer to Catherine.

"Now tell me all about it." She tore the oiled paper from the package

of crackers; her hand had the likeness to Catherine's, and the

difference, which her face suggested. Fingers deft and agile, but

shorter, firmer, competent rather than graceful. "Mother says you've

hired a wet-nurse and abandoned your family. I didn't think you had it

in you!"

"I know. You thought I was old and shelved."

"Just a tinge of mid-Victorian habit, old dear."

"You young things need to open your eyes."

"I have opened 'em. See me stare!"

Were those girls listening? The georgette one was eying Margaret.

The other, her retouching finished, snapped her handbag shut and

began a story about the movies last night. Catherine was hungry; good

soup--why, it was fun to gather an unplanned luncheon on a tray in

this way.

"Your old job?" proceeded Margaret.

"A new study--teaching conditions in some middle-western states. I am

to organize the work."

Margaret's questions were direct, inclusive. She did have a clear mind.

Her business training has rubbed off all the blurry sentiment she used

to have, thought Catherine.

"And you can manage the family as well?"

"This woman Henrietta sent me is fine. It's a rush in the morning,

baths and breakfast. Flora can't come in until eight, and I have to get

away by half past eight. No dawdling."

"And the King doesn't mind?"

Catherine flushed. Margaret had dubbed Charles the King years ago, but

the nickname had an irritating flavor. "He's almost enthusiastic this

week," she said. "Now tell me about yourself. What's this about your

leaving Mother?"

"Oh, I thought she might like to stay with George. Instead of that,

she's turned me out, neck and crop, and taken on a lady friend. I'm

house-hunting." Margaret laughed. "Trust Mother! You can't dispose of

her."

"But I thought you were so comfortable----"

"Too soft. You don't know--" Margaret was serious. "I can't be babied

all my life. All sorts of infantile traits sticking to me. You got

away."

"Mother said you'd been reading a foreigner named Freud."

"Well!" Margaret was vigorously defensive. "What of it?"

Catherine dug her fork into the triangle of cake.

"I thought Freud was going out. Glands are the latest."

"I bet Charles said that." Margaret grinned impishly as she saw her

thrust strike home. "Well, tell him I'm still on Freud. Anyway, I want

to try this. Amy and I want to live together. When you wanted to live

with Charles, you went and did it, didn't you?"

"I'm not criticizing you, Marge. Go ahead! Don't bristle so, or I'll

suspect you feel guilty."

"I do." Margaret had a funny little smile which recognized herself as

ludicrous. "That's just the vestige of my conflict."

"There's another influx"--Catherine looked at the moving line--"we'd

better give up these seats."

"There are chairs yonder." They wound between the tables to the other

end of the room, where wicker chairs and chaise longues, screens,

tables, and a mirror suggested the good intentions of the patronesses

of the St. Francis Club.

"You can lie down behind the screen if you're dead, or read"--Margaret

flipped a magazine--"read old copies of respectable periodicals. Here."

She motioned to a chaise longue. "Stretch out. I'll sit at your feet. I

have a few seconds left."

"How's the job?"

"All right. I spent the morning hunting for a girl. She's been rousing

my suspicions for a time. Going to have an infant soon. That's the

third case in two months." Margaret clasped her hands about her knees;

her short skirt slipped up to the roll of her gray silk stocking. "But

I've got a woman who'll take her in. She can do housework for a month

or so before she'll have to go to the lying-in home."

Catherine watched her curiously. There was something amazing about the

calm, matter-of-fact attitude Margaret held.

"Do you hunt for the father?"

"Oh, the girl won't tell. Maybe she doesn't know."

"If I had your job, I'd waste away from anger and rage and hopelessness

about the world."

"No use." Margaret shrugged. "Wish I could smoke here. Too pious.

No." She turned her face toward her sister, her eyes and mouth

dispassionate. "Patch up what can be patched, and scrap the rest. I'm

sick of feelings."

Catherine was silent. Margaret, as the only woman in a responsible

position in a chain of small manufacturing plants, occasionally dropped

threads which suggested fabrics too dreadful to unravel.

"Time's up." Margaret rose. "Directors' meeting this afternoon, and I

want to bully that bunch of stiff-necked males into accepting a few

of the suggestions I've made. I have a fine scheme." She laughed. "I

make a list pages long, full of things, well, not exactly preposterous.

Women would see them all. But they sound preposterous. And buried

somewhere I have the one thing I'm hammering on just then. Sometimes I

get it, out of their dismay at the length of the list."

"Here, I may as well go along." Catherine slid out of the chair.

"Will you be home Sunday?" Margaret stopped at the corner. Catherine

had a fresh impression of her invincible quality, there in the

sunlight with the passing crowds.

"Charles is in Washington. Come in and see the children."

"The King's away, eh?" Margaret waved her hand in farewell. "I'll drop

in."

* * * * *

At five Catherine was again on the Avenue, walking steadily north, an

eye on the occasional buses. If she could get a seat! As the traffic

halted, she saw a hint of movement at the rear of a bus ahead of her.

Someone was just getting out. She rushed for it, and clambered to the

top just as the jam moved stickily ahead. Just one seat, at the front.

This was luck. She relaxed, lazily conscious only of small details

her eyes seized upon. When the bus finally swung onto the Drive, she

straightened, drawing a deep breath of the fresh wind across the

river. A taste of salt in it. She liked the sweep and curving dips of

the Drive; the ride gave her a breathing space, a chance to shut off

the hours behind her and to take on the aspect of the other life that

awaited her. I'll patch up that old fur coat, she thought, and ride

all winter. Perhaps I may even afford a new one. Twenty-five a week

for Miss Kelly. Another five for my luncheons and bus rides. If Flora

will do the marketing, I'll have to pay her more. I ought to help

with the food bills, if we feed Miss Kelly, and pay for the clothes

I buy for the children, since I would otherwise be making them. Oh!

This domestic mental arithmetic sandpapered away the shine of the two

hundred and fifty a month which was her salary. But Charles couldn't

have additional expenses this year. It wasn't fair, when he had just

reached a point at which they found a tiny margin for insurance and

saving. Catherine rubbed her hand across her forehead; foolish to do

this reckoning in her head; it always left her with that sense of

hopeless friction, like fitting a dress pattern on too small a piece

of cloth--turning, twisting, trying. Charles had said, "Well, you know

_my_ income. We can't manage any more outgo there. Not this year." And

at that, she didn't see where she was going to get the first three

twenty-five dollars for Miss Kelly. Next month, after she had her own

first check--but now! She'd saved the first twenty-five on her own fall

clothes. If Charles hadn't had that heavy insurance premium this month,

she might have borrowed. It would be fine, some day, to reach a place

where their budget was large enough to turn around in without this fear

of falling over the edges. Dr. Roberts had said, "Three thousand is the

best we can do for you now, but later----"

II

Sunday was a curious day. Miss Kelly, who was to have alternate Sundays

off, had this one on, and had taken the children out. Catherine caught

a lingering, backward glance from Spencer as they all went down the

hall, a silent, wondering stare. He had said nothing about Miss Kelly,

nothing about the new order of things; Catherine felt that he held a

sort of baffled judgment in reserve. Letty, as always, was cheerfully

intent on her own small schemes. Marian had confided last night that

Miss Kelly was nice, but her stories sounded all the same, not like

Muvver's. Next Sunday, thought Catherine, I'll have them. It's absurd

to feel pleased that Spencer doesn't adjust himself at once. I want him

happy.

She sat at the breakfast table, too listless to bestir herself about

the endless things that waited for her. The morning sun was sharp and

hard on the stretch of city beneath the window, picking out slate roofs

and chimneys. Alone in the empty apartment, its silence enclosed and

emphasized by the constant sounds outside--the click of the elevator,

the staccato of voices in the well of the court, the rumble of a car

climbing the Amsterdam hill--Catherine relaxed into complete lethargy,

her hands idle in her lap.

The week had been drawn too taut. Surely coming weeks would be less

difficult, once she had herself and the rest of the family broken into

the new harness. She wished that Charles were sitting across from her,

the Sunday paper littering the floor about his feet. She would say,

"One week is over." And he--what would he say? "How do you like it, old

dear?" And she, "You know, I think I am making a go of it." Then if he

said, "Of course! I knew you would," then she could hug his shoulder

in passing, and go quite peacefully about the tasks that waited. She

sighed. If I have to be bolstered at every step, I might as well stop,

she thought.

She would like to sit still all day, not even thinking. Instead, she

pulled herself to her feet and cleared the breakfast dishes away

methodically. Then she opened the bundles of laundry, sorted the

clothes and laid them away, found fresh linen for the beds, laid aside

one sheet with a jagged tear to be mended later, investigated Flora's

preparations for dinner, and, finally, with a basket of mending,

sat down at the living room window. Perhaps Flora could see to the

laundry, although Catherine always had done that; she must plan, in

some way, to have Sunday reasonably free. Miss Kelly had offered to

take care of the children's mending; but--Catherine's fingers pushed

out at the heel of the black sock--Charles had to be sewn up!

How still and empty the house lay about her! Perhaps Charles was even

then on his way home--she had a swift picture of him at the window of

the train, hurling toward her.

Ridiculous to feel so tired. She stretched her arms above her head, and

then reached for the darning ball. Henrietta had said, "Don't weaken.

You'll find the first stages of adjustment the most difficult." True,

all right. The texture of her days rose before her, a series of sharp

images. Morning, an incredible packing of the two hours: breakfast,

the three children to bathe and help dress, Miss Kelly arriving like

clockwork to supervise the final departure for school, Catherine's

hasty glimpse at her face, flushed under the brim of her hat, before

she hurried out for the elevator. Then the bus ride; herself a highly

conscious part of the downward flood of workers, the fluster of the

morning dropping away before the steady rise of that inner self,

calm, clear, deliberate. The office--deference in the manner of the

stenographers--she was the only woman there with her own office, with

a man-size job. Occasional prickings of her other life through that

life--eggs she had forgotten to order. The ride home again, the warm

cheeks and soft hands of the children, and their voices, eager to tell

her a thousand things at once. Dinner, and Charles. What about Charles?

Her fingers paused over the crossing threads of the darn. He had been

busy with crowds of new students and opening classes. Under that, what?

She fumbled in her mist of images. She had scarcely seen him, except

at dinner. Usually he had a string of stories about the day. He had

gone back to the office two evenings, and to Washington on Friday. She

didn't know much about his week. Had he withheld it? Had she been too

engrossed?

The telephone in the study rang. Catherine hurried. Perhaps it was

Charles.

"Is Dr. Hammond in?"

"This is Mrs. Hammond." That clear, metallic voice! "Dr. Hammond is out

of town."

"Oh, yes. I thought he might be back. Would you give him a message for

me? Miss Partridge. Please ask him to call me as soon as he comes in."

"Certainly." Catherine waited, but the only sound was the click of the

telephone, terminating the call.

"Well!" Catherine sat down at the desk. Now, there's nothing to

be irritated about, she told herself. Her eyes traveled over the

bookshelves, low, crowded, piled with monographs and reviews. That

curtness is part of her pose--manlike. But she certainly hits my

negative pole!

Miss Kelly came in with the children, noisy and hungry, and the five

had dinner together. Catherine tried to talk with Miss Kelly. Her

round, light eyes met Catherine's solemnly, and she replied with calm

politeness to Catherine's ventures.

"No, Marian, dear," she said suddenly. "One helping of chicken is

enough for a little girl your age."

"Spencer had two!" Marian turned to her mother. "Why can't I?"

Catherine smiled a little wryly. She thrust under the sudden flash

of resentment. Of course, Miss Kelly had them in charge. What was

the matter with her to-day! She seemed to react with irritation to

everything.

"Marian's stomach seemed a little upset yesterday," confided Miss Kelly.

"We'll have our salad now." Catherine dismissed the question.

But after dinner, when Letty had been led protestingly away for her

nap, and Miss Kelly, armed with a volume of Andersen's "Fairy Tales,"

reappeared in the living room, Catherine couldn't resist the swift

entreaty of Spencer's eyes.

"Miss Kelly," she said, placatingly, "if you would like to go home now,

I can read to the children. I am quite free this afternoon."

Miss Kelly agreed placidly. When she had gone, Spencer stood a moment

beside Catherine, his eyes intent on her face; Catherine saw a wavering

tenseness in his look. He wanted to hurl himself at her, and he didn't

want to. She couldn't reach out for him, if he felt too grown-up for

such expression. She smiled at him, and with a huge sigh he settled

into the wicker chair, one foot curled beneath him.

"She was glad to go home, wasn't she?" he said.

"I'm glad she went," announced Marian. "She bosses me."

"Good for you," said Spencer. "Mother, read us 'Treasure Island.' I'm

sick of old fairies."

Margaret came in, her ring waking Letty. Catherine laughed at the

unconcealed expectancy with which the children welcomed their aunt.

"You've ruined them," she said, as Marian danced up the hall, her eyes

wide with anticipation for the packages Margaret carried.

"Well, they are delighted to see their old aunt, anyway!" Margaret

dropped to the floor, scattering the bundles, her hands held over them

in teasing delay.

"Your dress, Marg! On the floor in that?"

"Just a rag. Here, Letitia, your turn first."

Catherine went back to her chair to watch the orgy. Margaret was

extravagant as water.

"It isn't really a rag, Aunt Margie, is it?" Spencer had his head on

one side, deliberating. "It looks like--like pigeons."

"If I could find a gentleman of your discrimination, Spen, I'd grab him

in a jiffy!"

"It is like pigeons, isn't it, Mother?" Spencer looked perplexed.

"Yes." Catherine wished Margaret wouldn't tease him. She was lovely,

her gray-silver draperies floating around her slim, curving figure, the

purple glinting through. It was like a pigeon's breast, that dress.

Letty had a doll, soft and round and almost as large as Letty herself.

"Company for you, when your mother's off at work."

Letty's arms were fast about it, and her deep voice intoned a constant,

"Pretty doll! pretty doll!" until Marian's present appeared from its

wrappings.

"You stand on it and jump, this way." Margaret was on her feet, her

suède toes balancing on the crosspiece.

"Letty jump!"

"Not in here!" Catherine reached for the stick. "You idiots! You'll

knock the plaster off."

"Letty jump!" Catherine bundled Letty and the doll into her lap.

"Let's see what Spencer draws."

"Spencer was a difficult proposition." Margaret smiled at him. "I

thought of a rubber ball, and then I remembered he had one. So I got

this." She poked the box into his hands.

"It's as good as Christmas, isn't it, Muvver?" Marian was on tiptoe,

her Pogo stick clasped to her side, her head close to Spencer's as he

tore off the papers.

"Thought I'd help make him practical, to please the King."

"What is it?" Spencer knelt beside the box full of pieces of steel.

"You stick them together, and make skyscrapers and bridges and water

towers and elevators. The clerk said you could build a city."

"Let me help, Spencer?" Marian flung herself on the floor beside

Spencer.

"Me help!" Letty squirmed down from Catherine's lap.

"You might take the things into the dining room," suggested Catherine.

Spencer gathered up the box.

"I'm much obliged, Aunt Margie," he said, and Marian and Letty echoed

him as they followed into the next room.

Margaret settled herself in a chair at the window.

"I thought your nurse would be in charge." Her eyes wandered out to

the distant glint of water. "Thought you'd given up the heavy domestic

act."

"I sent her home." Catherine smiled. "Weak minded, wasn't it?"

Margaret nodded.

"Certainly. You look fagged. You ought to be out horseback riding or

something. You know"--she turned, her face serious--"if you're going to

do a real job, you have to look out. You have to relax sometime."

"I have to read the d'rections first, don't I?" came Spencer's firm

tones. "You can sit still and watch."

"Now I didn't budge from my bed until noon," went on Margaret, "and

then Amy had breakfast ready for me, and then I jumped in a taxi and

came up here. I have to run along in a minute, high tea down in the

Village. But you've been at work since early dawn, haven't you?"

"Oh, there were a few things----"

"Why don't you find a real housekeeper in Flora's place?"

"I can't afford to pay more, yet. And Flora is too good to throw out. I

can manage."

"You know"--Margaret's eyes were bright with curiosity--"I should like

to know what started this, your leaving your happy home, I mean. I

thought you were the devoted mother till eternity."

"I am," said Catherine, calmly. Then she leaned forward. "Do you

realize that the loneliest person in the world is a devoted mother?

This summer, Margaret, I thought I'd really go crazy. I was so sorry

for myself it was ludicrous. I'm trying to find out if I am a person,

with anything to use except a pair of hands--on monotonous, silly

tasks."

"Of course, the trouble is just that. You are a person. I'm glad

you've waked up, Catherine. You know, there isn't a man in the world

that I'd give up my job for."

"I want a man, too." Catherine's mouth was stubborn. "And my children.

I want everything. Perhaps I want too much."

"Oh, children." Margaret glanced through the wide doors. "Maybe

I'll want some, some day. Nice little ducks. Now I've got Amy--and

love enough to keep from growing stale. I want you to meet Amy some

day." She rose, adjusting the brim of her wide purple hat. "Amy's

waiting now. Tell Charles I'm longing for a glimpse of him." She

made a humorous little grimace. "Want to see how he likes this new

arrangement."

Margaret telephoned for a taxi, and then hung over the children,

offering impossible suggestions, until the hall boy announced her cab.

Marian wanted to go down to the Drive, to jump. Catherine waved good-by

to Margaret, her other hand restrainingly on Marian's shoulder.

"Not Sunday afternoon, Marian. There are so many people down there,

you'd jump right on their toes. You watch Spencer."

The children played in reasonable quiet. Catherine finished her

darning, her mind playing with the idea of the graphs she was working

on. As she rolled up the last stocking, she wondered what she used

to think about, as she sat darning or sewing. Nothing, she decided.

Plain nothing. I could let my hands work, and my ears listen for the

children, and the rest of me just stagnate.

She delayed supper a little, hoping that Charles might come. She

wasn't sure about the Sunday trains. Finally she gave the children

their supper and put Letty to bed.

Spencer was still engrossed in the construction of a building when Bill

Gilbert came in.

"Henrietta isn't here?"

"No, but do come in." Catherine led him into the living room. "Is Henry

coming?"

"She had a call, and said she'd stop here on her way home."

"Charles hasn't come yet. He's been in Washington since Friday."

"Friday? I thought I saw him downtown, with Miss Partridge. He probably

went later."

"He went at one."

"This couldn't have been Charles, then. It was about four. I thought

their committee had been meeting. Hello, Spencer. What you doing?"

Spencer had come in, his hands full of steel girders.

"Mr. Bill, you're a nengineer, aren't you? Well, could you show me

about this bridge?"

More than an hour later, when Henrietta did come, Bill was stretched

full length, his feet under the dining room table, his eyes on the

level of the completed bridge, a marvelous thing of spans and girders,

struts and tie-beams.

"I'm too weary to stay, Cathy." Henrietta set her case on the table;

her fair skin looked dusted over with fatigue. "Convulsions. One of

those mothers who won't believe in diet or doctors for her child. The

father sent for me. The child is alive in spite of her."

"Do sit down and rest, at least."

"No. I'm too ugly. Do you want to come, Bill, or are you staying?"

Bill pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, one hand reaching for his

pipe.

"This piece of work is done," he said, smiling down at Spencer's

engrossed head. "I've had a fine evening, Catherine."

He had. When they had gone, and Catherine was supervising the

children's preparations for bed, she still had the feeling of the

evening; she had pulled her chair into the dining room, to watch them;

Bill had looked up at her at long intervals, with a faint, queer smile

in his eyes; he had said nothing, except to offer solemn, technical

advice, simplified to meet Spencer's eagerness.

"I'm going to be a nengineer," said Spencer sleepily, as she bent over

him. "An' build things."

"I want to be one, too," called Marian.

"You can't! You're only a girl."

"Mr. Bill said I could if I wanted to. He said I could be anything."

"So you can." Catherine tucked her in gently. "But you have to go to

sleep first."

At eleven Catherine telephoned to the station, to ask about trains from

Washington. No express before morning. Charles wouldn't take a local;

he must have decided to take a sleeper. She set the sandwiches she had

made for him away in the ice chest. No use worrying. She had to have

some sleep, for to-morrow. Had Bill seen him, Friday afternoon? She

hated the queer way waiting held you too tight, as if you were hung up

by your thumbs. Charles might have wired her. But he knew she never

meant to worry.

She was half conscious, all through the night, of the emptiness of

his bed, opposite hers. Once she woke, thinking she heard the door

click. She sprang up in bed to listen. Nothing but the constant, faint

cacophony of city sounds. It must be almost morning--that was the

rattle of ash cans.

III

Astonishing how much less hurried the morning seemed, with no Charles

shaving in the bathroom, shouting out inquiries about his striped

shirt, his bay rum--he had a blind spot for the thing he wanted at the

moment. We need two bathrooms, thought Catherine. I've spoiled Charles.

Breakfast, too, was more leisurely; none of the last-minute scramble,

no sudden longing for crisp bacon, after the toast was made and the

eggs were boiled. There was time, actually, for a manicure. Flora

appeared promptly at eight, her Monday face lugubrious.

"Sunday's fearful exhausting, Mis' Hammond," she said, as Catherine

finished the consultation about dinner. "It's the most exhaustin'est

day us working women has, I thinks."

"And when Mr. Hammond comes, be sure to ask him if he wishes breakfast,

Flora. He may have had it on the train."

"Sure, I'll ask him. You run along and quit your worry, Mis' Hammond."

Catherine, hurrying across the Drive for the bus, was worried. She felt

almost guilty: first, because the morning rush had been so lightened;

and then, because she was going off, downtown, just as if Charles

scarcely existed. She had laid out fresh clothes for him, on his bed,

but she knew how he would rush in, full of pleasant importance from

the trip, wanting to shout bits of it to her while he splashed and

shaved and dressed, wanting her to sit down for a late cup of coffee

while he talked. If only he had come home yesterday! Well, to-night

would have to serve, although by evening there would be the film of the

day over that first sharpness of communication.

At the door of her office she paused, her fingers on the key. She

must leave, outside the door, this faint guilt which tugged at her.

She had wasted that hour on the bus. The order and quiet within were

like a rebuke. She crossed to the window and raised the heavy sash.

The cool bright morning air rushed in with a little flutter of the

papers on the desk. Across the street and a story lower, behind great

plate-glass windows, she could see busy little men hurrying about,

lifting the white dust covers from piles of dark goods: that was an

elaborate tailoring establishment, just waking into activity. Her desk

had a fresh green blotter, a pile of neatly sharpened pencils, and her

mail--C.S. Hammond. Extraordinary, this having things set in order

without your own direction! She might call up the house, to see if

Charles had come. But surely he would telephone.

Dr. Roberts came briskly in. She was to have a new filing cabinet, he

wanted her to meet the stenographer she was to share with him; the

President of the Bureau would be in that morning, and wished to talk

with her for a few minutes.

President Waterbury was a large and pompous gentleman who used his

increasing deafness as a form of reproach to his subordinates.

Catherine, sitting calmly near his massive mahogany desk, nodded at

intervals in response to his grave, deliberate remarks. Her work during

the war had convinced Dr. Roberts of her ability, hem, hem, although

that had been on a social study, and this was, hem, educational. Since

Mrs. Lynch, one of the founders of the Bureau, was a woman, it was

peculiarly fitting to place a competent woman in charge of one of their

many investigations. Ah, hem. A pleasure to welcome her there. Serious

concern, this administering of responsibility. He was dismissing her

with an elegant gesture of his old white hand, its blue veins so

abruptly naked between the little tufts of hair.

Catherine went back to her office.

"Oh, Mrs. Hammond!" The bobbed-haired office stenographer rose, with a

shake of her abbreviated skirt. "You were wanted on the wire. Said you

were in conference with the President. Here's the number."

"Thank you. No, I don't need you now." Catherine waited until the

door closed. She still hesitated. It must be Charles. Better to call

him outside, at noon. The telephone operator in the main office had a

furtive, watchful eye which probably matched her ear! But noon was an

hour away.

"Charles? Hello."

"That you, Catherine? I've been trying to get you for a solid hour!"

"I'm sorry." Was that girl listening! "When did you get in?"

"Early. Catherine, where have you put my lecture notes? The seminar,

you know. That class meets to-day. I can't find a damned shred of them."

His voice seemed to stand him at her shoulder, with the funny,

distracted flush, and rumpled hair of one of his fruitless searches.

"I haven't seen them this fall." She was moving rapidly about the

house, almost in kinæsthetic images. Where would she look? "Didn't you

file those in your office last spring? With the manuscript of your

book?"

"Um. Perhaps. I'll look there. Good-by."

Catherine hung the instrument slowly in place. Not a word of greeting.

But he had probably thrown his study into bedlam--and his disposition.

She smiled, faintly, and refusing to admit the little barbed regret,

turned to her work.

At noon, in the stuffy telephone booth at the elevator entrance of the

St. Francis Club she tried to reach him. But Miss Kelly said he wasn't

coming in for luncheon, and no one answered the call for his office.

The afternoon closed around her with steady concentration. Dr. Roberts

had said that on Friday there would be a conference: a head of a normal

college and a state commissioner of education would be on hand from the

West. She wanted this preliminary classification ready.

As she approached the house that evening, she discovered, ironically,

that her mind was revolving schemes for propitiation. Steak and onions

for dinner, and cream pie, and tactful inquiries about the trip.

There was no rush of children at the sound of her key. She heard

Marian's voice, and then Charles's. She hurried down the hall. Letty

sat on her father's knee, a crisscross of adhesive plaster on her

forehead, from which her hair was smoothed wetly back.

"She would jump on my Pogo stick, Muvver," protested Marian, "and I

told her not to, and----"

Catherine was on her knees beside the chair, and Letty's mouth began to

quiver again at a fresh spectator of her injury.

"It isn't a bad cut," said Charles, distantly. "Fortunately I came in."

"But where's Miss Kelly?"

"She left at six. I supposed you had instructed her to stay here until

you came."

"I told her to run along." Flora stopped at the doorway, her red

flowers bobbing over the brim of her hat. "I says I'd stay. An' those

chillun was all right one minute and the next they wasn't."

"Where's Spencer?" Catherine rose. She had waited a long time for a

bus, but it was just past six.

"In the bathroom, washing off the blood," said Charles, severely. "He

was wiping Letty's face when I came in."

"She fell on the radiator," went on Marian, "an' I told her not to----"

"It's all right now." Charles set Letty on her feet, and patted her

damp head. "But you surely ought to insist on that woman's filling your

place, since you aren't here."

"I shall." Catherine's eyes sought his with a defiant entreaty. "It

isn't very serious, after all," she finished, in white quiet. As she

went into her room to leave her wraps and brush up her hair, she found

her hands trembling, and her knees. She sat down at the window for a

moment. Of course, she thought, they are my responsibility. That's

only just. But he needn't hurry so to hold me up to blame. As if they

planned it--a staged rebuke for my entrance. Spencer was at the door,

his eyes large and serious.

"Hello, son!" Catherine shoved aside the tight bitterness, and smiled.

"Oh, Moth-er!" He ran across to her, burying his head for a brief

instant on her shoulder. "I thought--I thought she was dead. Only she

hollered too loud."

"I'm sorry, dear." Catherine hugged him. "But it's all right."

"And"--Spencer's lower lip quivered--"Daddy said why didn't I watch her

if she didn't have a mother. She's got a mother, and I was just sitting

there reading."

"Letty's all right now. Come, we must broil that steak! Aren't you

hungry?"

Dinner was ready, all but the steak. Catherine felt that she thrust her

hands violently into a patch of nettles and yanked them away, as she

cajoled her family back into calm humor. Charles, carving the steak,

suddenly lost his air of grave reproach, and began a story about a

family with two sets of twins that he had seen on the train. With a

sigh, Catherine relaxed her grip on the nettles. She might run into

them, later!

"We looked for you all day yesterday," she said, finally.

"Several of the men stayed over, and I had a fine chance to talk with

them. Brown of Cornell, and Davitts."

"Mr. Bill came in, Daddy, and showed me how to build a bridge."

"He thought he'd seen you Friday," said Catherine idly, "but I told him

you went at one."

"Oh, yes." Charles was casual. "I missed that train. So I went around

to the clinic."

His voice was too casual! And the swift glance he shot at Catherine as

she rose.

IV

"I've got to run over those lecture notes." Charles stretched lazily up

from the table. "They need freshening a bit."

"You found them, then?" Catherine had Letty in her arms, soft and

sweetly heavy with drowsiness.

"Yes. I'd forgotten about carrying them over to the office."

"I was in the sacred sanctum of the President's office when you called."

"Oh, that's all right. I found them in time." Charles strolled out of

the room.

"Daddy!" Spencer followed him. "Couldn't I show you my bridges and

things? I can make anything."

"Not to-night, Spencer. Daddy's got to work."

Catherine's query about home work for school relieved Spencer's gloom.

While she undressed Letty, smiling at the sleepy protests, Spencer

and Marian cleared the table. When she reappeared they were trying to

fold the long cloth, one at each end, Marian arguing heatedly about

the proper method. Charles banged his study door in loud remonstrance.

Catherine showed them the creases. Then they spread their books on the

bare table.

"You sit here with us, Mother," Spencer begged. "I can do my sums much

quicker. Marian doesn't have to do home work. She's just----"

"I do, too, have to do home work. The teacher said so."

"There, you shall, if you like." Catherine ruffled Spencer's hair. "Try

not to disturb Father."

She sat there with them for an hour and more. Marian snuggled against

her, showing her the pictures in her "suppulment'ry reading." Spencer

bent over his work in a concentration directed toward the impressing of

his sister, his cheeks growing pink, his hand clutched over his pencil.

Although she sat so quietly, her outer attention given to the children,

her deeper thoughts went scurrying and creeping up to the closed study

door, away from it. He needn't have worked to-night. Don't be absurd.

If he has a lecture to-morrow--he wants to shut himself away. Slowly

her thoughts circled, like gulls above the water, concealing in their

whirls the object which drew them.

"Muvver, does Spencer have to whisper his sums aloud?"

"Perhaps that helps him." Catherine smiled at Spencer's indignant face.

"You may whisper your story, if you like."

What were they swooping over, those gull-thoughts? Better to scatter

them and see. Not that he had missed the train; not even that he had

not troubled to run in for a moment that afternoon; nor that he had

chosen to see Miss Partridge. That might so easily be explained. No.

Just that queer, investigating glance, that deliberate offhand manner,

when he had told her. It set a wall between them.

The telephone rang distantly, behind the closed door. The children

lifted their heads to listen. A rumble of Charles's voice. Then silence

again.

When Spencer and Marian had laid away their books and gone to bed,

Catherine returned to her seat at the empty table. I want him, she

thought. But if I open his door and go in, then I become, in some way,

a propitiator. Perhaps I only imagine all this. I am tired. She drew

the pins from her hair and let the heavy coil slip over her shoulder.

Elbows on the table, fingers cool and firm against her forehead, as if

she might press order into her thoughts, she waited.

Suddenly she rose, shaking her hair back from her face. That is

grotesque, she thought, sitting here, and hastily she went through the

hall to the study door, flinging it open.

"Oh, hello." Charles looked up alertly from his book. He, too, had been

waiting. "Kids in bed?"

"Aren't you through?" Catherine yawned gently, drawing her fingers

across her lips. "I'm sleepy, and lonesome."

But under her lightness sounded a plunk, as of a stone dropping, a

confirmation of a fear, as she saw the wary alertness on Charles's face

vanish in quick relief.

"Just through," he announced. "Come on in. It's curious, how stale

these lectures seem, after a year. Have to refurbish them entirely." He

slipped the sheets into a manila cover. "That one's ready, at least."

Catherine sat on the corner of his desk, her fingers sliding through a

strand of her hair.

"Did you have a good trip?" she asked. Anything, to banish this

separateness. "I haven't heard a word about it."

"You weren't home. I was bursting with news this morning."

"Can't you remember a little of it?"

"I might try." Charles leaned back, his thumbs caught in his belt.

As he talked, Catherine listened for the under-tones, so much more

significant than the events. It had been a good trip. The men had

received him rather flatteringly, praised his latest monograph, shown

interest in the new psychological clinic. He had a comfortable,

well-nourished look; around his eyes, with the prominent jutting of

socket above, the lines were quite smoothed away. Catherine looked at

him, at the strong, slightly projecting chin, at the smooth hard throat

above the neat collar.

"Davitts hinted at an opening in a middle-western college," he said,

finally. "Head of the department. I told him I was in line for

promotion here, if I got this next book done this year. He seemed to

think he had something better up his sleeve."

"Away from New York?"

"Ye-up." Charles was blandly indifferent. "Nothing definite, you know.

Just hints."

"Would you even consider it?" Catherine's hands, even her hair against

her fingers, felt cold.

"It never does any harm to let people offer you things. And I don't

know--" He was drawing idle triangles on the manila covers of his

lecture. "Sometimes a position like that means much more power,

prominence, reputation, than anything here could. Would you mind?" He

was eying her carefully. "Be better for the children." And after a

pause. "Or would you have to stay here--for your job?"

"Have you just made this up--for a joke?" Catherine slipped to her

feet. "Are you just teasing me?"

"Not a bit. That's what Davitts said."

"Charles!" Her fingers doubled into a fist at the edge of the desk.

"Don't lurk around! Let's talk it out. You don't like it, my working?

You"--she stared at him--"you don't mean you'd hunt for a job

somewhere, in a little town, where I couldn't work, just to----"

"Good Lord! Now why go off at that tangent, just because I gave you a

bit of news. Didn't I say I wanted you to have what you wanted?"

"But you don't like it, do you?"

"Damn it, give me time to get used to it. It's all fired queer to go

off without any one caring, and come back to a deserted house. I'll

probably get used to it, but give me time."

"Do you want me to give it up?"

"Are you tired of it already?"

"Do you really care to know how I feel about it?" Catherine's voice was

low and tense. "I feel as if I'd escaped from solitary confinement. At

hard labor, too! I feel as if I could hold up my head and breathe. And

then, underneath, I feel you pulling at me, wresting me back. Oh, you

say you don't mind, but----"

"Catherine, see here." Charles stood up and leaned toward her. "I--I

haven't meant to be a hog. But a man has a kind of knock-out, to find

he isn't enough, with his home and all. Here, let's forget it. I've had

a hard week-end, and last week was a fright. That's all."

"It's not that you aren't enough." Catherine flung herself at that

phrase. "You know about that! Any more than I'm not enough, for you.

There's more to you than love, isn't there? Why isn't there more to me?

If you'd only see----"

"The only thing that bothers me is the children. Now, take Letty----"

"But I have left them with Flora many times. I've had to. And they

bump their heads when I'm home. That's not the point. It's your blaming

me."

"All right!" Charles threw up his hands in a sweep of mocking

surrender. "I won't say a word."

"I want you to say it, not hint it."

"Anything you like." His hands closed on her shoulders. "Here, you

haven't kissed me since I came home."

There were sudden wild tears under Catherine's lids, and she thought

desperately, oh, not that! Not kisses as the only way--to touch, to

reach each other!

"Didn't even kiss me good-by. Nice kind of wife." Charles pushed her

chin up with a firm finger. "There now----"

"You didn't give me a chance." Catherine was quiet, thrusting under

her rebellion. Suddenly, through her misted lashes, she saw just for a

flash, an echo of that wary, investigatory glance. She swung out over a

great abyss. Bill had seen him, with Miss Partridge. Nothing to that,

surely, except this feeling, which was not jealousy, but fear of what

he was defending himself against.

"I wanted to find you, but I didn't like to come up to the Bureau," he

was saying. "So I went down to the clinic and talked over things with

Stella Partridge." The brisk, matter-of-course words drew her back

sharply from the abyss. "It took the edge off, not finding you here,

this morning." He was threading his fingers through her hair.

"You're spoiled rotten!" Catherine could laugh at him now. He meant

that for his apology, and she would let it lift her out of fear and

hurt.

V

The week settled into a steady march. Flora had taken on the marketing,

Miss Kelly had agreed never to leave the house until Catherine arrived,

Charles was amiably preoccupied with the rush of the opening semester.

It hadn't been so hard to adjust things, thought Catherine. Takes a

little planning--I was too impatient.

Her work at the office was focussed on the Saturday conference. She

wanted her preliminary analysis in tables and graphs clear and adequate

enough to present to the men; there would be discrepancies between

the apparent system and the actual practice in the state which the

commissioner could point out. She hadn't time to complete the study of

the normal schools; they were astonishingly numerous and varied.

"It's just hit or miss, this whole educational business," she said to

Dr. Roberts, on Friday afternoon, as they talked over the material. "No

central direction or purpose."

"Too much imitation and tradition." Dr. Roberts had his pointed beard

between the pages of a catalogue. He lifted it toward her, his bright

blue eyes and sharp nose eager on the scent of an idea. "Too little

conscious plan. People are afraid of thought. Trial-and-error is the

working basis. But that's slow, and you have this heavy crust of

tradition."

"I'd like to scrap it all and make a fresh beginning!"

"There never is such a thing as a fresh beginning. You have to work

from what exists."

Catherine pushed aside a pile of catalogues, her face alight with

scorn.

"But why, if it's stale and wrong? Take these normal schools. Young

people, girls mostly, go there, because they have to have a diploma

to teach. What do they get? Things out of books. They learn to teach

paragraphs of geography, not to teach children. It would be ridiculous,

except that it is terrible. Perhaps it's because men run them."

"Women"--Dr. Roberts smoothed his beard--"are popularly supposed to

submit more docilely to tradition."

"Supposed by whom?" Catherine's hand sent a catalogue banging to the

floor. "That's been a convenient way of holding their wildness under,

I think." She felt her mind throw up swift thoughts that burst and

scattered like Roman candles. She couldn't gather the splintering

brightness. "We've had, as women, too small an orbit."

The stenographer thrust her bobbed head into the door, to say that Dr.

Roberts was wanted on the telephone. Should she connect his party here?

"No, I'll take him on my own 'phone." He rose, smiling. "We'll have to

thrash this out to-morrow," he said, "or some day. Don't frighten our

committee to-morrow, though, by announcing that you are wild, will you?"

* * * * *

Catherine, erect in her seat on the bus top, the golden October air

fresh on her cheeks, went on coruscating. It was true, that about

women. They felt that children were the most important part of life. So

they stayed with them, cared for them, held under all their own--was

it wildness?--bending it to food and clothes and order--and then? They

threw their children out into the nets laid by men, not viciously,

not deliberately, but with all that pompous weight of tradition. The

way things should be done, learned, thought. If you could scrap it

all and begin--where? With something, a kernel of intelligence, what

children are, and what you wish them to grow into, what will nourish

that growth. Charles was on that track, with his new clinic, and all

his work.

As she climbed down from the bus and started up the hill toward

Broadway, her thoughts still sparkled, spreading out in great circles

of light about her, vague projects, shadowy schemes, beautiful

structures of clarity and sanity for the world, for the children.

"What a stride!"

The circles contracted swiftly, and she turned.

"Bill! Hello." She emerged slowly, shreds of the dream still shining.

They fell into step.

"How goes it?" His glance veered to her face. "You look as if you'd had

your salary raised."

"Better than that." Catherine wanted to break into his dark, withdrawn

glance; she wanted, suddenly, to draw him into this glittering mood.

"Bill, it's wonderful. I feel my mind budding! It wasn't dead. Like a

seed potato--shoots in every direction, out of every wrinkle!"

"You look it." Bill nodded. "I saw that you walked on air."

"I've been recasting the universe." She laughed, as they waited a

moment for passing traffic. "That's better than building bridges, isn't

it?"

"It is less confining."

They went quickly past the subway kiosk, dodging the home-pouring

workers, past the peanut stand panting warm and odorous at the corner,

to the wide hill of steps in front of the University library. A flower

vender thrust his bunches of roses at them.

"I want some!" Catherine dug into her purse.

"Aren't they stale?" Bill watched her fasten the creamy, buff-pink buds

to her coat.

"Probably. But they look fresh now." Catherine swung into step again.

Queer, how that occasional little side glance of Bill's gave assent to

her mood, dipped into it, recognized it, without a word.

"I suppose," she said, as they rounded the corner of Amsterdam, "that

I can't stay on this level. It's too high. But I've just reached it

to-day. Assurance, and a long sight into what I can do."

"There's always, unfortunately, another day." Bill frowned slightly.

"Another mood. But you seem to have hit a fair wind. Henrietta told me

that Miss Kelly was panning out well."

"Yes." The view ahead, of the dipping, climbing avenue, with its

familiar shops, its familiar clatter of the cobblestones, was sharp as

a background of relief against which to-day stood out. "I know what I

feel like, Bill. If you want to know."

"I do. Always."

Simple words, but Catherine heard them with faint wonder. Bill was

never personal. His profile, with its long nose and lean cheeks, like a

horse, was reassuring.

"Well, then. Did you ever watch a treadmill? Round and round, all your

effort taking you nowhere but around? That's where I've been. That's

what I've done. The same circle, day after day. And now I'm out of it,

on a long, straight road. Going somewhere!"

"I hope it's straight." They had reached the apartment entrance, and

Bill shook his head at Catherine's suggestion that he come in.

"No road is really straight. But as long as it goes somewhere!"

Bill looked at her; Catherine thought he started to speak, and then

refused the words.

"Spencer is longing for your next call," she said.

"I'll drop in some evening. Henry's been busy."

"Don't wait for her, then. Just come."

At the door Miss Kelly met Catherine.

"Letty hasn't seemed quite well," she said. "I put her to bed."

"What's wrong?" Catherine stared at Miss Kelly's bland, pink face. "She

isn't really sick?"

"It's hard to tell, with a child." Miss Kelly followed Catherine down

the hall. "It may be just indigestion."

Letty, her small face flushed and scowling, wrinkled her eyes at her

mother.

"Don't want to go to bed. Want to see my Muvver."

"Here I am, Letty." Catherine touched her cheek, felt for her wrist.

"She has scarcely any temperature," announced Miss Kelly. "Just a

degree. But I thought----"

"Surely, she's better in bed. Did she have any supper?"

"Broth."

"Don't wait, Miss Kelly. I know you wish to go."

"Well, since you are here."

Catherine removed her coat and hat. The roses dropped to the floor.

"Pretty!" Letty reached for them.

"I'll put them in water." Catherine came back with a vase. "Do you feel

sick anywhere, chick?"

"Letty not sick. Get up." Catherine caught the wiggling child, and

pulled the blanket into place.

"You lie still, and mother'll be back presently. I must see to dinner

for Daddy."

She hurried into the kitchen. Spencer and Marian were under the

dining room table, playing menagerie, and unable to answer her except

in fierce growls. Charles hadn't come in. Probably Letty wasn't really

sick. She had little flurries of indisposition; perhaps she had eaten

something.

Charles came in, with a jovial bang of the door, and a shout, "Ship

ahoy! Who's at the helm?"

"Don't tell him, Muvver." Marian's head butted the tablecloth aside.

"Sh!"

"'Lo, Cath!" He swung her up to tiptoe in his exuberant hug. "Where are

the kids?"

"Grrrr!" and "Woof!" The table cloth waggled.

"Ah, wild animals under foot!" Charles gave an elaborate imitation of a

big game hunter, creeping toward the table, sighting along his thumbs.

"Biff, bang!" He reached under, seized a leg, and drew out Marian,

giggling and rolling. "Bagged one! Bang, bang! Got the panther!" He had

Spencer by the collar. "Teddy, the great hunter!" He straddled them,

his arms folded, while they shrieked in delight.

A wail from the doorway, "Letty play! Shoot Letty!"

Catherine ran past them, gathering the child into her arms. Her hand,

closing over the small feet, found them dry, hot, and the weight of the

child seemed to scorch through her blouse against her shoulder.

"What's the matter with my baby?" Charles followed them. "Let me have

her, Catherine."

"She's supposed to be in bed." Catherine covered her with the blanket.

"Now you stay there, young lady! Mother will come in soon."

She touched the scarlet cheek, her fingers feather soft. Letty's

eyelids, heavy and dark, drooped, and her protest broke off.

Catherine drew Charles into the hall.

"Would you call up Dr. Henrietta? I think her fever is coming up."

"Is she sick?" Charles looked aggrieved at this intrusion upon his mood.

"I hope not." Catherine gave him a little push. "Call her up, and see

when she can come in. I'll have dinner on directly."

The wild animals were washed and combed, and dinner served when Charles

came out of the study.

"She's not in. Probably at dinner. I left word with the clerk. But I

say, Catherine. I got tickets for 'Liliom' to-night." He looked blankly

disappointed. "You said you wanted to see it, and I was downtown. Good

seats, too."

"Oh, Charles!"

"And I even called up that girl we had last year, to stay with the

children. That graduate student, you know."

"Well." Catherine lifted her hands in a little gesture of resignation.

"If Letty's sick-- But 'Liliom'! I do want to go."

"Maybe she'll be all right when she's asleep."

But she wasn't. Eight o'clock came, with Charles fidgeting like a

lamprey eel on a hook, and no word from Henrietta. Letty was asleep,

her hands twitching restlessly. Catherine shook her head, as she read

the thermometer.

"I can't go, Charles. Almost a hundred and one."

"What ails her? Has that woman you've got been feeding her pickles?"

The door bell rang. Charles, with a mutter of "Dr. Henry, perhaps,"

rushed to the door. He came back.

"It's Miss Brown, come to stay the evening. What shall I tell her?"

"Tell her I can't go." Catherine was abrupt. She was disappointed and

she was fighting off a sturdily growing fear about the next day,--and

she resented Charles's air of injury.

"I hate to, after I begged her to come in."

Catherine brushed hastily past him and went to the door. Miss Brown, a

plump, pale, garrulous woman of middle age, a southerner, waited.

"Letty, the baby, isn't very well," explained Catherine. "Nice of you

to come in so promptly. Some other night, perhaps." And presently the

door could be closed upon Miss Brown's profuseness of pity.

Charles was glooming about his study.

"When you leave them all day for your job," he said, "I should think

you might----"

"No, you shouldn't think!" Catherine laughed at him. "You're as bad as

Spencer, little boy!"

The bell rang again.

"That's Henry!" Catherine hurried to the door, and opened it to Stella

Partridge's little squirrel smile and extended hand.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hammond. I told Dr. Hammond I'd let him have this

outline when it was finished."

"Won't you come in, Miss Partridge?" Catherine heard Charles coming. He

lounged beside her, hands in pockets.

"No, thank you. I just brought this outline, Dr. Hammond." She handed

him the envelope.

There was a moment of silence, in which Catherine felt a tugging at

her will, as if Charles tried to bend her to some thought of his. She

glanced at him, still sulky.

"I have it," she said. "Why don't you take Miss Partridge to your show,

Charles? If she would like it. Have you seen 'Liliom,' Miss Partridge?"

"Letty is indisposed," said Charles, "thus interfering, after the

fashion of children, with her parents' plans."

"Can't I stay with her?" Miss Partridge opened her dark eyes very wide.

"Mrs. Hammond is punctilious."

Catherine withdrew a step. If Charles added another word--she could

hear the rest of his sentence, about her leaving them all day! But he

merely added, "Would you care to go, Miss Partridge?"

"Ought you to leave Mrs. Hammond, if the baby is ill?"

"It's always a relief to be rid of a disappointed man, Miss Partridge."

Catherine was thinking: how disdainful that cold, hard voice makes her

words sound! "Letty isn't seriously ill, but I want the doctor to look

at her. I shall be happier here."

Miss Partridge seated herself in the living room, and Catherine, after

a glance at Letty, and a moment of search for the tie Charles wished,

sat down opposite her. She was charming to look at, Catherine realized;

a soft, fawn colored suit, exquisitely tailored over her slender,

sloping shoulders; a long brown wing across the smart fawn hat, a knot

of orange at her throat. She drew off her wrinkled long gloves, and

revealed a heavy topaz on her little finger.

"Your work, Mrs. Hammond? You are finding it interesting?"

"Very." Catherine felt as expansive as an exposed clam.

"Mr. Hammond was saying you had some kind of educational research in

hand."

"Yes." Was that Letty, crying? Charles came in, rubbing his sleeve over

his hat.

"I don't need glad rags, do I, since you aren't in evening dress?"

"No gladder than those." Miss Partridge rose.

Catherine stood at the living room door, listening for the sound of the

elevator. Charles came rushing back.

"You're sure you'll be all right?" That was his little flicker of

contrition. "I don't like to leave you this way, but the tickets might

as well be used."

"Have a good time." Catherine kissed him lightly.

"Wish it was you, going!" He was in fine fettle again, offering a small

oblation before his departure.

* * * * *

Letty woke, complaining that she wanted a drink. Catherine sat beside

her, smoothing the silky fair hair, until she slept again. Her forehead

didn't feel so parched. But Catherine went to the telephone and called

Henrietta. Bill answered.

"Oh, Catherine! Henry got your message. She had to stop at the hospital

first. She'll be in. Is Letty really sick?"

"I hope not. But I need Henrietta's assurance."

"She'll be along."

Spencer looked up from his books.

"I think Daddy ought to stay home if you have to," he said, frowning.

"Daddy isn't any use if the children are sick," announced Marian, with

dignity. "Is he, Muvver?"

"Not as a nurse," said Catherine. "But he's a great comfort to me, you

know."

"How?" Spencer was still accusing.

"Just being." Catherine smiled at him. Spencer had a curious way

of reaching out, thrusting fine feelers about him, investigating

subtleties of relationship. He was staring at her intently, as if he

pondered her last words. Then with a sigh, postponing judgment, he

closed his book.

"My home work's all done, and I did it alone, because Letty is sick. Is

that a comfort to you, Mother?"

"It is." Catherine was grave.

When they had gone to bed, Marian in Catherine's room, so that Letty

would not disturb her, Catherine moved restlessly about the apartment.

She was thinking about them, her children. What they needed. More than

food and shelter, more than physical safety. They needed a safety in

the _feeling_ around them. A warm, clear sea, in which they could

float, unaware that the sea existed. Tension, ugly monsters, frighten

them, disturb them out of their own little affairs. Spencer especially,

but Marian, too. Letty was such a baby, still, but she was growing; she

was still turned inward. Catherine wandered to the door and listened.

She was breathing too rapidly. If Henry would only come!

She sat down at the window, staring out at the dull yellow glow

which held the city as a mass and dimmed the stars. You can't pretend

for them, she thought. They catch the reality under the surface. But

that perfect safety of feeling--who has it! She felt herself opposed

to Charles, struggling with him, toward that intense calm that might

hold the children free and unaware. Perhaps some women could attain

that--she was abject, despairing--women who could lose their own

struggling selves. But what then? The children grew up, and made

their own circles, never reaching anything but this going-on. Surely

somewhere, along the way, there should be something beside immolation

for the future, otherwise why the future? Marian, Letty--I can't do

it, she thought. Drown myself to make that quiet, white peace. I

won't drown. I keep bobbing up, trying to be rescued. Something in

me, shrieking. If I can rescue that shrieking something, and silence

it, then surely there's more in me, more poise, more love, to wrap

them--no, not wrap them, to float them in. If Charles will help!

She had a sharp vision of Charles and Stella Partridge, sitting side

by side in the darkened theater, their eyes focussed on the brilliant

fantasy of the stage. Charles had been delighted to go. He didn't have

play enough, these last years. I wish I were beside him,--her hand

reached out emptily, as if to grasp his. Good for him, seeing other

people, other women. They stimulate him, even if I don't like them. She

caught, like a reflection in a mirror, the tone of that short walk from

the bus with Bill. Something exciting about that--an encounter with

another person.

A ring of the bell; Dr. Henrietta at last.

Catherine stood behind her, as she examined Letty, drowsily fretful at

the disturbance. What strong, white, competent fingers Henry had! They

went into the living room.

"She's not very sick." Henrietta sank into a chair and snapped open

her cigarette case. "I'm not sure--tell better to-morrow. I'll come in

early. You better keep the other children away from her. It might be

something contagious."

"She's had measles." Catherine was openly dismayed, as the bugbear of

contagion rose. "Good land, if she has, it means they all get it, just

like a row of dominoes. Henry! What shall I do?"

"Oh, get a nurse and quarantine them. You don't need to stay in.

Charles doesn't."

"I couldn't."

"Well, wait until to-morrow. May be just indigestion. I've given her

a dose for that." Dr. Henrietta stretched in her chair, crossing her

ankles, slim and neat in heavy black silk above small, dull pumps.

"We don't want your career busted up yet. How's it going? And where's

friend husband?"

"I sent him off to the theater with Miss Partridge." Catherine grinned.

"He had the tickets, and was sure' I needn't stay with Letty."

"I never yet saw a man who was worried about his child when he had

something he wanted to do." Henry puffed busily. "They regard children

as pleasant little amusements, but put them away if they bother."

"Charles isn't quite like that----"

"No defense necessary. I'm just offering an observation. Sorry I had

to be late. I stopped to watch Lasker do a Cæsarian on a case of mine.

Beautiful job. But how's your work? Bill said he ran into you, spoke

of your looking well."

"My job is fine." Catherine saw, at a great distance, the mood in which

she had come home. "Henrietta, I must go down to-morrow. There's a

conference. I've been getting ready for it all the week."

"Miss Kelly will be here, won't she?"

"It's Saturday. She'll have to take Spencer and Marian--although I

suppose Letty has exposed them already."

"She may have nothing at all, you know. I'll come in as early as

possible. What time is this conference?"

"Ten."

"Um. I'll try to make it. I promised to stop in at the hospital.

Charles can stay, can't he, if I should be detained?"

"Don't you let her have anything that will quarantine me! If I am

thrown out now, I'll never get back."

"All righty." Henrietta rose, shaking down her skirt. "I won't." She

ground out her cigarette in the ash tray, with a shrewd upward glance

at Catherine. "You go to bed. You look too frayed. This is just a first

hurdle, you know. I'll come in before nine to-morrow. But you make

Charles stay, if I should be later."

VI

Catherine woke into complete alertness. Charles had come in. She heard

his cautious step in the hall. Letty was sleeping easily, her breathing

soft and regular again. Catherine slipped noiselessly out of the room.

"Hello!" She brushed into Charles at the door. "Marian's in my bed,"

she whispered. "Have a good time?"

"Oh, fair." Charles yawned. "How's Letty?"

"Asleep. Tell me about it in the morning. We might wake her."

* * * * *

In the morning Catherine was fagged. All night the awareness of Letty

had kept her at the thin edge of sleep, drawn out by the faintest

stirring. The child was sitting up in bed, now, clamoring for her doll,

her bwekkust, and her go-duck; her cheeks were pink, but they seemed

flower-cool to Catherine's fingers.

"Let's see if you have any speckles, Letty." She peeled the night dress

down; one round red spot in the shell-hollow of her knee. "Is that a

speckle, Letty Hammond, or a mosquito bite!" Letty gurgled deliciously

as Catherine's fingers tickled. "Let's see your throat. No, wider? Does

it hurt?"

"Uh huh. Hurt Letty." Letty's arms were tight around her neck, and she

bounced vigorously up and down on her pillow.

"Here, stop it." Catherine pinioned her firmly. "Where does it hurt?"

"Hurt Letty. Here." Letty sat down with a plump, and pointed at her toe.

"Well, you don't look sick, I must say. But that spot--" Catherine

imprisoned her in the night dress again, and tucked her firmly under

the blanket. "I'll bring Matilda, and you can put her to bed with you.

Dr. Henrietta's coming to see you soon."

Marian appeared at the door.

"Daddy's asleep and I didn't know he was in his bed." She giggled. "I

most woke him up jumping on him."

"Hurry and wash, dear. And don't come in with Letty, please."

Catherine sighed a little as she hurried to thrust herself into the

shafts of the morning.

Letty's frequent interruptions, and Charles's reluctance to wake;

the discovery that there were no oranges; the demoniac speed of the

clock--it was after eight when they sat down to breakfast. Catherine

drank her coffee, and hurried off to dress.

Flora came in. Catherine heard her, with relief, offering to make fresh

toast for Charles. Miss Kelly appeared. She was calmly solicitous as

Catherine explained Dr. Henrietta's visit. "Of course, I couldn't go

into quarantine," she said, "on account of my mother."

"I understand. If you'll just take the other children outdoors for the

morning----"

They had gone. It was nine, and no Dr. Henrietta. Catherine fastened a

net carefully over her coiled hair, brushed her hat, poking at the limp

bow of ribbon, and then went slowly to the study, where Charles was

rummaging through a drawer of his desk.

"You have no classes this morning, have you?" she began.

"No, I haven't. Do you know where I put that outline Miss Partridge

left?"

"Here it is." Catherine lifted it from beneath the evening paper.

"Charles, Henry is coming in. She said as early as possible. I can't

wait for her. Would you mind?"

"What's she coming for? Isn't Letty all right?"

"I don't know. She has a red spot. Henry thought she might have

something--scarlatina----"

"I thought they'd had 'em all, those red diseases."

"Her fever is down. I think she's not sick. But Henrietta wanted to be

sure. Would you mind--waiting till she comes?"

"Stay here this morning?" Charles looked up, an abrupt frown between

his eyes. "I can't, Catherine. I can't play baby tender. I've got a

meeting."

"So have I." Catherine stood immobile in the doorway. "A very important

one. Those men from the West are here. At ten. I am to present the work

I've been doing."

"Can't Flora keep an eye on Letty till Henry comes?"

"I think one of us ought to be here."

"Good Lord, Catherine! I have to meet the committee on choice of

dissertation subjects. Do you want me to telephone them that I have to

stay home with the baby?"

"You couldn't stay just an hour?"

"Be reasonable, Catherine. I can't make myself ridiculous."

"No?" Catherine stared at him an instant. Then she turned and left him.

He followed her into the living room, where she stood at the window.

"Call up your mother," he suggested. "She can probably drop in."

"Why," said Catherine evenly, "does it make you more ridiculous than

me? That dissertation committee meets a dozen times this fall. Letty is

your child, isn't she? Don't tell me I'm her mother!"

"I expected something of this sort, when you announced that you had

to have a career." Charles walked briskly in front of her, stern and

determined. "We might as well fight it out now. Do you want me to take

your place? You said not. Do be reasonable."

"I'm so reasonable it hurts." Catherine's laugh was brittle. "Go on, to

your meeting. I'll stay, of course."

"Well, really, I'm afraid you'll have to." Charles hesitated, and then

added, gruffly, "It's unfortunate it happened just this way." His

gesture washed his hands of the affair.

As he strolled importantly out of the room, Catherine's hand doubled in

a cold fist against her mouth. He can't see, she thought. There's no

use talking.

When he had gone, Catherine hovered a moment at the telephone. No use

calling her mother; she wouldn't be able to come up from Fiftieth

Street in time to do any good. She sat down at the desk, her hands

spread before her, her eyes on her wrist watch. Henrietta might still

come. The minutes were thick, cold liquid, dripping, dripping. Letty's

loud call summoned her, and she hunted up the dingy cotton duck, while

that slow, cold drip, drip continued. Half past nine. The minutes split

into seconds, heavy, cold, dripping seconds. Time could drive you mad,

thought Catherine, while the seconds dripped upon her, if you waited

for it long enough.

It was almost ten when she telephoned the Bureau.

Dr. Roberts' neat accents vibrated at her ear.

"I am sorry," she said, "but I cannot get away. One of the children is

ill. I've been waiting for the doctor. You have the final sheets and

graphs I made, haven't you? There's a list of questions and notes in

the left drawer of my desk. I regret this. If you wish any explanation

of the graphs, please call me."

He sounded abrupt, irritated, under his perfunctory regret. As

Catherine hung away her hat and coat, she felt a cold, heavy weight

back of her eyes, deep in her throat. Time had lodged there! I can't

sit down and cry, she thought. No wonder he is angry. It's my business

to be on hand. She had once, swimming at low tide, found herself in a

growth of kelp, the strong wet masses tangling about her frightened

struggles. Charles had dragged her out, to clear green water and

safety. She laughed, and pressed her fist again against her mouth. He

wouldn't drag her out of this tangle, not he!

She sat beside Letty, reading to her, when Dr. Henrietta finally came.

"Catherine! You stayed!" Her round face set in dismay. "I tried once to

call you. That baby died, the one we delivered last night. I've been

working there."

"I knew you'd come when you could." Catherine pushed her chair away

from the bed. Henrietta pulled off her coat, pushed up her cuffs from

her firm wrists, and bent over Letty.

"She's all right," she said, presently. "Just a touch of stomach upset

last night. That's good."

"Ducky sick." Letty waved her limp bird at Henrietta.

"Keep him very quiet, then." Henrietta poked the duck down beside

Letty, and shook herself briskly into her coat.

Catherine followed her into the hall.

"I might as well have gone down to the office." She was ironic.

"Exactly. I'm awfully sorry, Catherine, that I am so late. It's almost

noon, isn't it? I thought I could keep life in that little rag." Her

eyes looked hot and tired. "But I couldn't. Just keep Letty from

tearing around too much to-day. She'll be sound as a whistle to-morrow

again."

"Well, at least we escaped a plague." Catherine leaned against the

wall, inert, dull.

"Wouldn't Charles stay?" Henrietta peered at her. "Too busy, eh? Well,

Monday you'll be free as air again."

"I wonder."

"Now, Catherine, don't be so serious. A year from now you won't know

you weren't there!"

"It's not just that, Henry. It's the whole thing." Catherine flung open

her hands. "Am I all wrong, to try it?"

"You know what I think. Here, put on your hat and come out in the

sunshine. Haven't you some marketing to do?"

"No. Flora does it. But I will go to the corner with you."

Flora could keep an eye on Letty. Catherine hurried for her wraps, and

joined Henrietta at the elevator.

"You've had a horrid morning, haven't you?" she said, swinging up from

her inner concentration. "The poor baby----"

"If we can pull the mother through. She's been scared for months. She

doesn't know, yet."

They stood at the corner, the clatter of the street bright about them.

"I've another call at Ninetieth. I'll ride down." Henrietta signaled

the car. "Buck up, Cathy. It's all part of life, anyway. Death--" She

shrugged. "That's the queer thing." Her placid mask had slipped a

little. "Pleasant words to leave with you, eh?" She jeered at herself.

"So long!"

As Catherine recrossed the street, she hesitated, glancing back into

the shade behind the iron palings of the little park. Was that Charles,

just within the gate, and that slim, elegant, tan figure beside him?

She turned and fled. She wouldn't see them, not now. Not until she had

fought through this thicket of resentment. After all, she had known,

all the time, that what fight there was to make she must make unaided.

The sun was warm and golden, and there came Spencer and Marian,

shouting out, "Moth-er!" as they chased ahead of Miss Kelly.

"Oh, we had a nice time." Marian danced at her side, clinging to her

arm. "Miss Kelly told us a new game."

How well they looked, and Miss Kelly, trudging to catch up with them,

was serene and smiling. Letty wasn't sick. It was all a part of life.

She could manage it, everything, someway!

Miss Kelly, puffing and warm, was delighted with the news about Letty.

"I was trying," she said, "to figure out some way about mother, so I

wouldn't have to desert you." Catherine's quick smile saw Miss Kelly as

a sunlit rock, equable, sustaining.

Flora shooed the children out of the kitchen. She was engrossed in

the ceremonial preparation of stuffed peppers with Spanish sauce.

Catherine, preparing orange juice for Letty, was secretly amused at

the elaborate rites. Not until Flora had closed the oven door on the

pan did she look up at Catherine. Then----

"Gen'man called you up, Mis' Hammond. I plumb forgot to tell you. He

pestered me 'bout where you was, and I told him you was out for the

air."

"Who?" Catherine poured the clear juice in to a tumbler. "Did he----"

She turned quickly. "Who was it?"

"Lef' his number. I put it on the pad."

Catherine flew into the study, deaf to Letty's shrill call. It was

the Bureau. Her voice, repeating the number, was imperative. She had

forgotten that Dr. Roberts might call. The whir of the unanswered

instrument pounded on her ear drum. After one. The Bureau was deserted.

What _would_ he think! Why, it looked--she pushed the telephone away,

dull color sweeping up to her hair. It looked as if she had lied. But

it had been so late when Henrietta had come that any thought of the

conference had been worn down. She would have to explain, Monday, as if

she had been caught malingering.

"Hello." Charles stood at the door, uncertainty in his greeting.

"What's the verdict? Pest house?"

"No." Catherine was jamming the whole dreadful morning out of sight,

stamping on the cover--"Henry says it was just indigestion. She's all

right."

"Did you get down to your meeting?"

Catherine shook her head.

"Now that's a shame," Charles advanced tentatively. "I hoped Henry

would come in time."

Easy to say that now, thought Catherine. Then--I won't be ugly. I can't

endure it.

"I felt an awful brute." Charles threw his arm over her shoulders. "But

you saw how it was."

"Oh, I saw!" An ironic gleam in Catherine's eyes.

"And here Letty didn't need you, anyway. You might even have gone last

night."

"I must see to her lunch." Catherine twisted out of his arm, adding

with a touch of malice--"You know you had a good time."

"Oh, fair." Charles was indifferent. "Left me sort of done this

morning. Miss Partridge wanted me to thank you for her pleasant

evening."

"I thought I saw you at the gate just now," said Catherine.

"Yes. I just ran into her on my way home."

"Don't look at me that way!" Catherine cried out sharply.

"What way?" Charles expanded his chest, bristling.

"As if you expected to see me--_suspecting_ you!"

"Well, good Lord, you sounded as if you thought I'd spent the morning

with Stel--Miss Partridge."

"I hadn't thought so. Did you?"

"Of course not." Charles began, with elaborate patience. "I told you

that dissertation committee--" Catherine's laugh interrupted him, and

he stared at her. "I don't know what you're trying to do," he said

slowly. "I'm sick of this guilty feeling that's fastened on me. Last

night because I wanted you to go to the theater, this morning because I

had to go to a legitimate meeting. You don't act natural any more."

Catherine went quickly back to him, her finger tips resting lightly

against his shoulders.

"And so he deposited the blame where it wouldn't bother him--on her

frail shoulders!" Her eyes, mocking, brilliant in her pale face, met

his sulky defiance. "Philander if you must, but don't act as if you'd

stolen the jam!"

"I'm not philandering."

"No, of course he isn't." Catherine brushed her fingers across his

cheek. "Not for an instant. Now come, luncheon must be ready."

"But I may!" His voice came determinedly after her, as she went into

Letty's room, "if I don't have more attention paid to me at home!"

VII

Saturday, Sunday, Monday morning again. Catherine, shivering a little

in the wind from the gray river, as the bus lumbered down the Drive,

tried to escape the clutter of thoughts left from the week-end. She had

borrowed twenty-five dollars from Charles that morning, for Miss Kelly.

She had pretended not to see his eyebrows when she laid the market

bills in front of him. Flora had said, when Catherine suggested more

discretion in shopping: "Yes'm, I'll make a 'tempt. But charging things

in a grocery store jest stimulates my cooking ideas."

Perhaps I'll have to take back the shopping. A gust caught her hat,

wheeled it half around. And clothes! I've got to have some. How? I

won't have a cent left out of that first check. It's like an elephant

balancing on a ball, or a tight-rope walker without his umbrella, this

whole business.

Last night, when her mother had come in, and Bill and Dr. Henrietta,

her mother with several amusing little stories about the friend who

had come from Peoria, Illinois, to spend the winter with her--too plump

to fit easily into the kitchenette--Charles, with his affectionate

raillery of Mrs. Spencer--her mother was fond of Charles. But he

needn't have made a jest of Saturday morning, and his refusal to give

up his job to stay home with Letty. "That's what poor men are coming

to, I'm afraid," her mother had told him. Henrietta had jibed openly at

him, so openly that only Mrs. Spencer's gentle and fantastic mockery

had smoothed his feathers. And Bill had said nothing. Catherine drew

her collar closely about her throat. She had found him looking at her,

and in his glance almost a challenge, a recall of that brief walk

on Friday. "I hope it's straight, your road," he had said then. She

shrugged more deeply into her coat. Straight! Was it a road? Or merely

a blind alley? Or a tight-rope, and she had to poise herself and juggle

a hundred balls as she crossed; the house, the children, the bills,

Charles, always Charles, and her work. She came back to the thought of

Dr. Roberts and the explanation she must offer.

Dr. Roberts, however, seemed miraculously to need no explanation. He

had called to tell her that the committee was to stay over Monday, and

that she could meet the two men after all. With sudden release from

the tension of the past days, Catherine moved freely into this other

world, and her road seemed again straight. She was quietly proud of the

conservative response her suggestions met; her mind was agile, cool,

untroubled. There grew up a plan for a first-hand study of several of

the normal schools. Someone from the Bureau might go west. Catherine

brushed aside her sudden picture of herself, walking among the bricks

and stone, the people, for which these dust-grimed catalogues stood.

As she went home that evening, little phrases from the day ran like

refrains. "A masterly analysis, Mrs. Hammond. Your point of view is

interesting." And Dr. Roberts, after the men had gone--"I call this a

most encouraging meeting, Mrs. Hammond. Sometimes the personal equation

is, well, let us say, difficult. But you have tact."

Oh, it's worth any amount of struggle, she thought. Any amount! I'll

walk my tight-rope, even over Niagara. And keep my balls all flying in

the air!