The Waterbury Democrat., 1935-01-25

about the ice cracking. It would only worry him.
 And at the same time Brian Westmore stood on a deserted river bank, gazing at a smoldering bon fire. The girl was gone-no doubt about that. Brian turned and parked the coupe. He eased him self behind the steering wheel, stepped on the starter.
 T wonder" Brian asked the si- lent darkness, "what her name is?"
 For those four persons 1t had been an important day-more 50 than any of them realized.
 .
 The day that followed seemed quite the opposite. Gale arose promptly, hurried through the morning tasks and walked to the mill with her brother. She was at her place when the bell sounded, ready for work-one of 60 women, some older and some younger than herself, standing before the rows of machines that filled the gray. noisy, moist over-heated room. All of the 30 wore blue apron-dresses. Their arms went up and down, up and down, clamping on bobbins, twisting the thread, snapping the bobbins off again.
 Sometimes the girls moved a few steps to left or to right. Some times their eyes wandered across the room. But none of the 60 ever spoke. They worked automatically precise, impersonal as the ma chimes.
 Gales fingers moved like the rest. In two years at the mill she had learned to keep up with the flying silken spindles in spite of weariness, in spite of thoughts that would persist in breaking through the monotony of the grinding, shrieking room.
 To-day was like that. There were thoughts that wouldn't be pushed back, that wouldn't stay securely where she had put them. Instead of moving hands and jerking bob bins, instead of whirling silken spindles Gale saw young man with broad shoulders, 0 young man with brown eyes, whose face was deeply tanned. She saw him smil- ing, looking up at her as he knelt, coaxlng the flames of the bonfire to rise higher. She heard him say, "Look-if you stand over here l think you'll get more heat" and then, "If you don't mind waiting alone for few minutes I'll dash down and get my car"
 She had run away. Of course she had run away! What else was there to do? Brian Westmore had saved her life, but 1t was what he would have done for anyone. He hadn't recognized her, hadn't known she was Q mill girl. He was, as Gale admitted to herself. much nicer than she had expected. Friendlier and easier to talk to.
 There was something else that had surprised her. For Q moment she had actually felt sorry for him, for Brian Westmore!. It was whom he had said, I'm not going back to Paris. I had the foolish notion I could be an artist but found out was mistaken"
 Something in the way he said 1t had made her think of herself, her ambition to become a teacher. Brian Westmore wanted to be an artist and couldn't, just as she had dreamed of teaching school. Now he was "going to get 0 job" He meant in the mill, no doubt. She had come back to the mill, and so had Brian Westmore-but with what difference!
 He'd have an office up in front. an office with high, wide windows and plenty of sunshine. There would be no rows of machines keeping up their merciless, pound- ing din; no stifiing air; no standing, hour after hour, before jerking bobbins, clamping them on and snapping them off; no foreman to snap out orders
 The thought brought Gale back sharply to her surroundings. Clyde Fisher would be beside her any moment, might be behind her now.
 She looked around quickly. He wasn't there. No, he was over be- side the windows. Gale bent her head and worked swiftly, day. dreams forgotten.
 Hour after hour went on. The brief lunch period passed and then there were three and a half hours more--three and half hours of whlrling spindles, groanfng ma