in Jane Joyner’s kitchen the thing that comes close to my heart is a dream without a body—nothing more. “I thought I was happy until you came along,” Mr. Elliott was saying. “Then I found out how lonely my gayety was.” He is strong and fine, capable of making a woman happy, and I hold the future of our two lives in my hands. And then he was drawing me to him. Almost, his lips touched mine. The quick revolt, the wave of physical nausea—it was as though an icy, sinister wind had swooped down on my blooming flowers and shrivelled them. With a desolate little smile I drew back from him, an alien standing outside of all that might have been mine. I bade him good-bye, and to-night, when I walked by Jane’s kitchen, open to the soft night, I turned my eyes away, afraid to look in on the sweet little home scene. In all my life I have never felt so alone. _Wednesday Morning._ Mr. Elliott sent back a wonderful basket of fruit. It came over on the hack and the whole village is agog over it. The gossip has disturbed dear old mammy greatly. She suggests that we still the gossip and flatter our neighbours by giving a party. Then they won’t know what to think. I have consented. Mammy is a woman of action. The party comes off this afternoon. The house hums with activity. _Wednesday Afternoon._ The party has passed into history. I got only the littlest taste of the contents of that beautiful basket Mr. Elliott sent me. Everybody was here, and they all seemed to have such a good time. Even the reconciled Ducketts tottered over. What a success I seem to be at reuniting severed hearts. If my book is a failure I may set up an establishment of the sort—go into a trance and vision dazzling futures for people. Well, how do I like the idea? Seven days ago had I put the question to myself my spirit would have flung back in bitterness, “Physician, heal thyself.”