Grief and anger pressed more strongly against the dam, and the man turned and left rapidly, letting his thoughts flicker and scatter through private memories that Ronny did not share, that no one shared, breaking thought contact with everyone so that the man could be alone in his own mind to have his feelings in private. * * * * * Ronny picked up the empty glass that had held his chocolate milk from the back steps where he had left it and went inside. As he stepped into the kitchen, he knew what another kitchen had looked like for a five-year-old child who had been Purcell ninety years ago. There had been an iron sink, and a brown-and-green-spotted faucet, and the glass had been heavier and transparent, like real glass. Ronny reached up and put the colored plastic tumbler down. "That was a nice young man, dear. What did he say to you?" Ronny looked up at his mamma, comparing her with the remembered mamma of fifty years ago. He loved the other one, too. "He tol' me he's glad I play Indian." --KATHERINE MacLEAN * * * * *