ce, and freedom with nature; as having the world
open up to one like a flower filled with colour and life. She thought of
the robin, of the tree whose secrets he had learned, of a mental range
including even that medley of human beings amongst whom she lived. And
the fact that something of his meaning had eluded her grasp made her
rebel all the more bitterly against the lack of a greater knowledge ....

Often during the weeks that followed he dwelt in her mind as she sat at
her desk and stared out across the river, and several times that summer
she started to walk to Silliston. But always she turned back. Perhaps she
feared to break the charm of that memory....

CHAPTER IV

Our American climate is notoriously capricious. Even as Janet trudged
homeward on that Memorial Day afternoon from her Cinderella-like
adventure in Silliston the sun grew hot, the air lost its tonic, becoming
moist and tepid, white clouds with dark edges were piled up in the
western sky. The automobiles of the holiday makers swarmed ceaselessly
over the tarvia. Valiantly as she strove to cling to her dream,
remorseless reality was at work dragging her back, reclaiming her;
excitement and physical exercise drained her vitality, her feet were
sore, sadness invaded her as she came in view of the ragged outline of
the city she had left so joyfully in the morning. Summer, that most
depressing of seasons in an environment of drab houses and grey
pavements, was at hand, listless householders and their families were
already, seeking refuge on front steps she passed on her way to Fillmore
Street.

It was about half past five when she arrived. Lise, her waist removed,
was seated in a rocking chair at the window overlooking the littered
yards and the backs of the tenements on Rutger Street. And Lise, despite
the heaviness of the air, was dreaming. Of such delicate texture was the
fabric of Janet's dreams that not only sordid reality, but contact with
other dreams of a different nature, such as her sister's, often sufficed
to dissolve them. She resented, for instance, the presence in the plush
oval of Mr. Eustace Arlington; the movie star whose likeness had replaced
Mr. Wiley's, and who had played the part of the western hero in "Leila of
Hawtrey's." With his burning eyes and sensual face betraying the
puffiness that comes from over-indulgence, he was not Janet's ideal of a
hero, western or otherwise. And now Lise was holding a newspaper: not
the Banne