Worcester Democrat and the ledger-enterprise. (Pocomoke City, Md.) 1921-1953, 1940-06-28
CHAPTER Is

incredible n1gnC nor Tile iIloIHLlS tloI
followed it. There were blank spaces
when her mind, dazed with pain, must
not have functioned at all, when she
must have moved, puppet-like, at the
command of some sheer tenacity of
spirit. She knew that she used the
Lodge phone to call one of the numer-
GUS small hotels in Kenoqua and ask
that a car be sent for her. She wait
ed, huddled on a chair in Brent's lit
tie office, until she heard wheels on
the gravel outside. Then she made
her way quietly across the deserted
lounge and down the steps.
She recalled little of the ride to
town, or of her midnight arrival at
the hotel she had chosen at random.
A drowsy woman behind the desk as
signed her to room. The man who
had driven to the Lodge for her car
ried her bags upstairs. When he had
gone and March had locked the door
behind her, she crossed the little room
to the dresser and stood there, her
hands upon it, peering into the mir
ror.
A ghost looked back at her, a wan
and weary ghost, with dark shadows
under staring eyes, with a mouth
twisted by torment. She took off her
hat and pressed her fingers hard a.
gainst her throbbing temples.
Her heart cried out, Brent .
Brent, what have you done? How am
to bear this?
But she didn't know the answers
to the questions her heart asked.
There weren't any answers. She turn
ed unsteadily from the blank reflec-
ton of her face and flung herself,
sobbing, across the bed. -.
Two days later March walked into
the Saunders Studio and gave her
name composedly to the girl in the
outer office. Clay was expecting her.
She had talked with him by phone
only short time before when she
called to ascertain whether he had re-
turned from his vacation.
Clay had suggested then, his voice
boyishly eager, "How about luncheon,
March? I've been cursing my luck
ever since l heard you were in town
last week, thinking I'd missed you."
But March had insisted, cts bust
ness / want to see you about now,
Clay. Can't l come to the studio 2"
The receptionist was new since
March's time. She said respectfully,
"Mr. Saunders said you were to go
right in"
A moment later March was in the
familiar office, with Clay's hands
clasping hers, with his dear, depend
able face lighting up at sight of her.
He said, March, it's great to see
you'll" And then, frowning a little,
But you aren't looking well. Is any
thing wrong, my dear?"
March said, simply, Everything,
Clay"
"You mean, you and Brent"
She nodded. Sometime I'll tell you
about it. Just now Cant. But l
remember what you said, Clay. If
ever l needed help-and 1 do need it.
/ need job"
Clay said, as she had known he
would, "Of course, my dear. When
do you want to start?"
Narch's smile was crooked. "Some-
times wonder you don't get tired of
picking up the pieces"
At first March's fingers were a
little clumsy with brush and pencil.
At first memories welled so poignant
ly within her that she could scarcely
see the drawing board on which her
work was spread. And if the days
were hard, the nights were torture.
But time is anaesthetic, dulling the
sharp edges of memory, slowing the
eager thrust of hope. And work is
a panacea for many ills.
March was thankful for her friends
during the endless weeks of that hot
summer, during the early fall. She
and Conchita took an apartment to-
gether once more. Old acquaintance
rallied around. But it was Clay who
proved a tower of strength during
those difficult days. The quiet af-
lection in which March had always
held him deepened and grew, feeding
on countless kindnesses, on his untir-
ing efforts to make her happy. More
for his sake than her own, she sought
to dissemble the fact that she wasn't
happy at all. She tried to hide from
him the bleak inner core of despair
that made such hollow mockery Of
her pretended satisfaction with her