f gaiety, grace and ease, but with it all the brilliancy to which Amy
had been blind; the rich ferment of new ideas in women's lives,
discussions, work of many kinds, art, music, "movements" all combined
into one thrilling pulsing whole. And again she felt within herself
that rising tide of youth and eager vitality.

"Oh, what couldn't I do, my dear, if I only had a chance? Why doesn't
somebody see it at once--notice me now, right here on the street? You,
madam, in that limousine--look out and see me--don't go by! You're
losing the chance of a lifetime! You're missing me--me--Ethel Knight!"

As the dame in her car sped smoothly by, Ethel suddenly laughed aloud.
But her laughter had a dangerous note, and she added fiercely, biting
her lip:

"Now, don't be silly and burst into tears!"

"Ma'am?" said a voice.

She stopped with a jerk and looked up into the startled eyes of a
massive young policeman. Her last remark had been spoken directly up
into his face, and the youth was blushing visibly.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Excuse me!"

"Certainly, ma'am."

And she hurried on.

This loneliness lasted several weeks. Then Joe grew dimly aware of it,
and came to her assistance with awkward efforts to comfort her. He was
at home more often at night. His gruff voice took on a kindlier tone,
and in an offhand manner intended to seem casual he would ask where she
had been that day or what book she was reading. And they would discuss
it for a while. He took her to the theatre and to a concert now and
then. They went for rides at night in his car, and he talked to her
about his work. She could feel his anxious friendliness. "What a dear
he is to me," she thought.

As time went on this companionship grew so natural to them both that
more than once Ethel felt in herself a content which made her a little
uneasy. As in his blunt kindly way Joe drew closer to her now, she had
an awkward consciousness of being in her sister's place. No, not that
exactly. Still, she did not care to think of it. She kept out of Amy's
room. It had subtly changed and become Joe's room--to her mind at
least--though by little things he said and did she knew that Joe was
keeping that idealized image of his wife still warm and living in his
mind.

But was he--altogether? At times she would frown to herself a bit. Joe
loyal? Yes, of course he was, she would indignantly declare. In a
novel Ethel had once read, the hero who had lost his wife had taken his
grief