ere just long enough holiday to rest
her, to free her from the office; not long enough to begin to find
positive joy.

Between shudders before the swiftly approaching office she thought of
Mr. Schwirtz. (She still called him that to herself. She couldn't fit
"Eddie" to his trim bulkiness, his maturity.)

She decided that he was wrong about socialism; she feebly tried to see
wherein, and determined to consult her teacher in ideals, Mamie Magen,
regarding the proper answers to him. She was sure that he was rather
crude in manners and speech, rather boastful, somewhat loquacious.

"But I do like him!" she cried to the hillsides and the free sky. "He
would take care of me. He's kind; and he would learn. We'll go to
concerts and things like that in New York--dear me, I guess I don't know
any too much about art things myself. I don't know why, but even if he
isn't interesting, like Mamie Magen, I _like_ him--I think!"

Sec. 7

On the train back to New York, early Monday morning, she felt so fresh
and fit, with morning vigorous in her and about her, that she relished
the thought of attacking the job. Why, she rejoiced, every fiber of her
was simply soaked with holiday; she was so much stronger and happier;
New York and the business world simply couldn't be the same old routine,
because she herself was different.

But the train became hot and dusty; the Italians began to take off their
collars and hand-painted ties.

And hot and dusty, perspiring and dizzily rushing, were the streets of
New York when she ventured from the Grand Central station out into them
once more.

It was late. She went to the office at once. She tried to push away her
feeling that the Berkshires, where she had arisen to a cool green dawn
just that morning, were leagues and years away. Tired she was, but
sunburnt and easy-breathing. She exploded into the office, set down her
suit-case, found herself glad to shake Mr. Wilkins's hand and to answer
his cordial, "Well, well, you're brown as a berry. Have a good time?"

The office _was_ different, she cried--cried to that other earlier self
who had sat in a train and hoped that the office would be different.

She kissed Bessie Kraker, and by an error of enthusiasm nearly kissed
the office-boy, and told them about the farm-house, the view from her
room, the Glade, Bald Knob, Hawkins's Pond; about chickens and fresh
milk and pigeons aflutter; she showed them the kodak pictures taken by
Mrs. Cannon an