The next few days I lived solely for the cards that drifted back from along his route- then a letter came, saying that he was at home and at work. I went about the house wondering how I could appear at all natural with such a fierce fire burning inside me. I was almost ill and spent my spare time in bed. But the burning eased the con­flagration settled to a steady flame to light my life. Henry no longer irritated me. Let him live in his memories! I had memories too!

Our bodies may be prisoners, but our thoughts are free: no walls can keep them in or out. I always spoke to Page as if he were near, and many times I was sure that my thoughts, flying east, met his, winging westward through the night.

Time has a trick of slipping by quickly when we are not anticipating some event. Nearly a year had passed. I heard from Page only at infrequent intervals, through his letters to Dad. I was glad of it; it made my part much easier. Not that it was easy at that. Many a night I stared into the dark, racked by forebodings. Suppose Page should marry! I had no right to expect him to stay free. I was purely selfish. Why, why must I grow old giving my youth to one who did not even care for it, and denying the one who promised to wait? It was not easy.

June again—Henry was going to the county seat on some business for the bank and I went along to do some shopping. It was a lovely day. We left the house at one o’clock; left so casually the house that neither of us would see again. I cannot tell you how it happened—there are so many motor accidents on our hard roads. I recall screaming as the big bus bore down upon us.

I came to in the hospital. Dad was beside me. I knew where I was. I do not think I asked, “Where am I?” and I did not ask, Where is Henry?” I believe I knew before Dad told me a few days later. At least, I felt no surprise, no grief, no relief—just nothing at all.

Mother would be there, and then Dad. I also recall Mother Dunne sit­ting by me. They came and went, and went and came. It didn’t matter. It must have been weeks before I asked for a mirror. But mother was there when I asked. I caught the look passing over her face, and promptly insisted that the mirror be brought. She tried to prepare me a trifle. I imagined scars and bruises. My face had been spared, but it looked so strange, framed in -white hair instead of black!

I could not grasp it—this white-haired stranger! I held the glass and stared at her till they took the mirror from me.

As I got lots better; things began to clear up. I tried to think it all out, but was too weary to go far at it. By degrees I pieced together that I had my freedom—I had mercifully been spared. The details through my illness—but I was a white-haired woman at thirty-one.

I, who had repressed so much in my life, actually began to babble. I asked mother, I asked the nurses, I even asked the doctor, “Do I look old?” Their reassurances did little good. It only mattered what Page would think!

I went from the hospital to mother. They were so kind. Dad looked after everything for me. Henry’s boys had gone to live with their grandmother Lane. The house was sold, also the furnishings.

When I was asked what I wished to have from the house, I cried out in my weakness, “Nothing! I can think of nothing there that I ever want to see again.” It was not mentioned after­ward.

There was money placed in my ac­count at the Arco bank. Some of it was life insurance. I accepted what was given, as back wages for six years’ housekeeping services, but I asked no particulars.

By Christmas I was myself again, in health and spirits. My parents were more than content to have me at home. I had not written to Page of the turn affairs had taken and I knew Dad had probably never thought of doing so either. I was quite sensitive about my hair—but most of the curious of our town had called and gaped—as I drove my­self to attend the Christmas service at the church. Modern hats pull low, thank goodness!

I must begin to look ahead. One cannot drift always. How I had longed to be free, and how I had imagined my flight to Page if ever freedom came! But it had come at a price. My black hair had taken my self-confidence with it, when it went. As long as I kept silent, I still had Page. If he knew it—what then? His caring had come to be so much a part of me. How could I face the empty years if deprived of it? Again in my musings I would con­sider myself fortunate. How many women burdened with family cares, would be glad of the opportunity to cut loose from it all and start anew in their early thirties.

And love drew me like a magnet. I could not plan my life until I knew. An idea formed itself and I carried it out. It was not fair to Page to wait longer. I expressed a wish to go east and my parents were only too pleased to have me wish for anything, once more. They supposed I was going straight to Elizabeth’s home, but I knew better. I went to Philadelphia the first week in April.

After resting from the ride, I went apartment hunting. I must have a home—a retreat to live or die in. I must feel established before letting Page know I was near, and he should do the wooing. If this meant marriage, he must be sure about wanting me. After all, I had only been with him two days—a small foundation for the hopes I was building. He might be married even now!

I set June first for the date to an­nounce myself. In the meantime, the apartment must fill my time and thoughts. Afterward, I would look for employment if—

Those three rooms meant a chance, to express my pent-up urge for nesting. There was a flurry of shop­ping and an orgy of paint and enamel. I bought only essentials, and everything secondhand, that I might scrub and paint to my heart’s content. Every piece in the place was mine, which meant so much to me. I made curtains and bought barely enough dishes to serve three on a painted breakfast table. Neat and plain, but bare: that was as I wanted it, room for more as I added it.

But stretch it out as I might, time began to seem slow. The control it took to keep away from a telephone! According to Arco and Lanesville standards, a widow is not a free woman for at least a year. I had set June first, and I would wait.

At last it came and I dated the note composed weeks before:

DEAR PAGE :

I am living alone at —Pearl Street. I shall he delighted to have you and Eliza­beth take dinner with me Saturday, June fourth, at seven.

A motor accident last summer resulted fatally for Henry Dunne, and the shock and illness following is responsible for the turning of my hair from black to white. The price perhaps!

If your plans are already made for this weekend, let me know when you can come, as ever,

CATHERINE WILSON DUNNE.

I mailed it early; I knew he would receive it that evening. How would he react? I had to tell him about my hair at once. I could not let him come to me without some warning. I must not look for a reply before Friday evening or Saturday morning—a century to wait!

I would be very formal, even distant, until I saw his attitude. If he showed the least hesitation—

And what do you know about it? Thursday morning, a night letter came:

Saturday too far off. Thursday at six-thirty, alone—Must see you.

PAGE TYLER.

Today—this very day. Well, I must not expect too much! I must remember—

Bless his heart, two days are too long! What would he say when he learned I had been two months in his own city? And six-thirty! That meant coming straight from his work, for they lived well out of the business section. I must have supper ready. Such happiness! I read it again, it seemed eager. Surely he read all my note?

Well, all days come to an end, no matter how endless they promise to be. The house and supper were ready. I was aquiver with suppressed excite­ment. My hair was dressed—it was still curly—but how I wished it were black, as Page had loved it!

He was coming—he was at the door! I must he calm—and formal. Then he was inside, and I was in his arms. My heart was bursting.

“Catherine, Catherine, my dear girl! Have you really come to me at last?” Thrills, thrills, thrills!

I drew back in his arms. “So glad to see you, Page! But aren’t you hungry?”

Only hungry for you, darling. I’ve starved so long.” At last we came to enough to take a chair (not chairs). His manner had satisfied me that he surely did care for me, but I must ask, still sheltered in his arms, if it didn’t really matter.

“Don’t you mind at all, Page, about my hair?”

You little goose! You called it the price—well, I call it a bargain. Last night, after I read your letter, I was full of thoughts of how it might have been your sight, your hearing or even your life itself. I loved the black hair, but I coveted my neighbor’s wife—so God is good, after all!

“Now we must do some deciding right here tonight. How soon can you be legally mine, dear lady?”

“I am yours and have been for two years, but what aboutElizabeth? She has kept your home so long—and, Page, I just can’t go into another woman’s house. If you would come here—”

“Elizabethis going to marry Sid this fall anyway. They are building now. I’ll get Aunt Jane to stay withEliza­beth till her wedding, and we’ll camp right here. The house belongs to me, and we will move in when they go to their new place. How about it? Say when—is it Saturday?”

And if you knew Page you would know that it was Saturday. Aunt Jane did not have to stay with Elizabeth, after all; for Sid stayed. They did some quick deciding, too, and we had a double ceremony at the rectory.

We are still here in the nest, but the new house is completed.

Sid and Elizabeth are moving next week, and we cannot find an excuse for lingering.

I cannot picture to you the glory of these months, love interchanging, our thoughts in common, our table for two—sharing our lives.

Was it worth waiting for? We agree that it was.

Oh, darling nest, I shall cherish your memory always! But we shall be need­ing the yard