sensations of
living are agonizing. It is the same with the birth of souls, for a
soul is not really born until that day when it is offered choice
between life and death and chooses life. In Mildred Gower's case this
birth was an agony. She awoke the following morning with a dull
headache, a fainting heart, and a throat so sore that she felt a
painful catch whenever she tried to swallow. She used the spray; she
massaged her throat and neck vigorously. In vain; it was folly to
think of going where she might have to risk a trial of her voice that
day. The sun was brilliant and the air sharp without being humid or
too cold. She dressed, breakfasted, went out for a walk. The throat
grew worse, then better. She returned for luncheon, and afterward
began to think of packing, not that she had chosen a new place, but
because she wished to have some sort of a sense of action. But her
unhappiness drove her out again--to the park where the air was fine and
she could walk in comparative solitude.

"What a silly fool I am!" thought she. "Why did I do this in the
worst, the hardest possible way? I should have held on to Stanley
until I had a position. No, I'm such a poor creature that I could never
have done it in that way. I'd simply have kept on bluffing, fooling
myself, putting off and putting of. I had to jump into the water with
nobody near to help me, or I'd never have begun to learn to swim. I
haven't begun yet. I may never learn to swim. I may drown. Yes, I
probably shall drown."

She wandered aimlessly on--around the upper reservoir where the strong
breeze freshened her through and through and made her feel less forlorn
in spite of her chicken heart. She crossed the bridge at the lower end
and came down toward the East Drive. A taxicab rushed by, not so fast,
however, that she failed to recognize Donald Keith and Cyrilla
Brindley. They were talking so earnestly--Keith was talking, for a
wonder, and Mrs. Brindley listening--that they did not see her. She
went straight home. But as she was afoot, the journey took about half
an hour. Cyrilla was already there, in a negligee, looking as if she
had not been out of the little library for hours. She was writing a
letter. Mildred strolled in and seated herself. Cyrilla went on
writing. Mildred watched her impatiently. She wished to talk, to be
talked to, to be consoled and cheered, to hear about Donald Keith.
Would that letter never be finished? At las