Thurley could almost fancy she heard the answer being made, as glorious a feat as there ever was to be, to have children speak one’s name with admiration, to have shown America over-rich in all physical attributes, as taking for her spoils the greatest lesson of all, re-educating her artists so they might draw on the wonderful and hitherto barely skimmed surface of her astral or mystical energy which lies waiting for all true idealists. The third day after Thurley’s return, when she was card-indexing her thoughts in order to begin her concert tour, wondering how to convince the town that she had returned to be one of them and that no matter how great the world might call her she did not belong to the world but to Birge’s Corners, she finally decided to go to see Lorraine. She was amused at the situation as she slipped into a frock like the beautiful green blue rust which comes on copper and put a gold piece in her purse for the boy. She, Thurley Precore, like a wistful village spinster, going to call on the son of her erstwhile adorer! And she chose to carry out the illusion by walking through the streets, nodding at passers-by and pretending not to notice their astonished glances. The Corners could never quite forget the birthday party for Taffy, although Taffy had long since ascended to canine realms above. She came upon a gathering in front of Dan’s store—she had wanted to go inside to buy some trifle and recall the atmosphere of the old days, even if Dan’s desk was now locked and deserted, the days when a willful girl used to dance in and call “Cohoo” up at the young proprietor. But there was a platform in front of the showcases and women were sitting on it, all of them in uniforms. They had a barrel for a table, a pitcher of water and glasses, and pamphlets which they flung out into the crowd at intervals. Boy Scouts were standing in line and singing lustily the doughboy favorite, while a small person also in uniform directed them with wild gestures: Oh, there was a little hen and she had a wooden leg, The best little hen that ever laid an egg, And she laid more eggs than any hen on the farm— And another little drink won’t do us any harm— As the crowd cheered, the small directress turned to face them and speak in a shrill, excited voice about the need for funds, lapsing into slang when other superlative failed her, striding up and down, her soldier hat on one side and her hair dishevelled. It was Lorraine Birge! Thurley felt as if the world were approaching an end as she discovered the identity of the speaker. Beside Lorraine were Josie Donaldson, Hazel Mitchell and presently Cora Spooner appeared to play an uncertain trombone solo, while a queer youth in white flannels and a dangling eye glass began passing the hat—it was Oweyne Pringle of the art shoppe! He gurgled his delight when he recognized Thurley. “You’ll have to sing for us—the crowd will be twice as generous ... oh, do, it will please Mrs. Birge.”