tearless, her mind stunned, her feelings queer and uneven, now surging
up, now cold and still.

"Where has she gone? What do I know? . . . What do I believe?
Where is God? . . . What is life? What am I here for?"

With a pang she recalled the town in Ohio where she and Amy had been
born, and her thoughts went drifting for awhile. Pictures floated in
and out, pictures of her life at home. She was hungry for them now, the
old stays and firm supports, the old frame house, her father and the God
in the yellow church, the quiet river, the high school and that friendly
group of eager girl companions, with work, discussions, young ideals,
plans and dreams of life and love. . . . All up by the roots in a
few swift weeks!

"Shall I go back?" she asked herself. "Do I want to go--now that Dad is
dead, and most of the girls have gone away, scattered all over the
country?" Again she lapsed. "I'm too dull to think." She let the
pictures drift again. Church sociables, a Christmas tree, dances,
suppers and buggy rides, picnics by the river. How small and very
far-away and trivial they now appeared. All had pointed toward New
York. "Go back and marry, settle down? Do I want to? No. And anyhow,
there's Joe and Susette. My place is right here--and I'm going to stay.
But what is it going to mean to me? What do I want in this city now?"

In the turmoil, startled, she looked about her for a purpose, some
ideal. But the old beliefs seemed dim; the new ones, garish and
confused. She recalled those faces of Amy's friends. "Yes, cheap and
tough, for all their clothes!" Or was it just this ghastly time that had
made them all appear so?