Once a week she rides away to the city where she spends the morning in
the gay and crowded stores and the afternoon in the Art Institute. She
never wearies of seeing pictures. She never, if she can help it, misses
an exhibition, and whenever the day's doings have not tired her too much
this little old lady will steal off to the edge of the great lake and
dream of what lies in the world beyond its rim. She often wishes she
could paint the restless stretch of water but though she knows its every
mood and though she is a wonderful judge of pictures she can not
reproduce except in words the lovely nooks and beauty spots of her little
world.

Perhaps it is this knowledge of her limitations that causes that little
strain of wistful sadness to creep into her voice sometimes and that
sends her very often out beyond the town, south along Park Lane to the
little Green Valley cemetery.

She loves to read on the mossy stones the unchanging little histories, so
brief but so eloquent, some of them. The stone that interests her most
and that each time seems like a freshly new adventure is the simple shaft
that bears no name, no date, just the tenderly sweet and pathetic little
message:

"I miss Thee so."

Mrs. Jerry Dustin knows very well for whom that low green bed was made
and who has had that little message of lonely love cut into stone. But
she longs to know the rest of the story.

Sometimes she has a real adventure. It was here at the cemetery one day
that she met Bernard Rollins, the artist. He was out sketching the