married a young wife, the doctor often talked to her of the hours spent with the sick woman and expressed a good many things he had been unable to express to Elizabeth.  He was almost a poet in his old age and his notion of what happened took a poetic turn.  “I had come to the time in my life when prayer became necessary and so I invented gods and prayed to them,” he said.  “I did not say my prayers in words nor did I kneel down but sat perfectly still in my chair.  In the late afternoon when it was hot and quiet on Main Street or in the winter when the days were gloomy, the gods came into the office and I thought no one knew about them.  Then I found that this woman Elizabeth knew, that she worshipped also the same gods.  I have a notion that she came to the office because she thought the gods would be there but she was happy to find herself not alone just the same.  It was an experience that cannot be explained, although I suppose it is always happening to men and women in all sorts of places.”

* * *

On the summer afternoons when Elizabeth and the doctor sat in the office and talked of their two lives they talked of other lives also.  Sometimes the doctor made philosophic epigrams.  Then he chuckled with amusement.  Now and then after a period of silence, a word was said or a hint given that strangely illuminated the life of the speaker, a wish became a desire, or a dream, half dead, flared suddenly into life.  For the most part the words came from the woman and she said them without looking at the man.

Each time she came to see the doctor the hotel keeper’s wife talked a little more freely and after an hour or two in his presence went down the stairway into Main Street feeling renewed and strengthened against the dullness of her days.  With something approaching a girlhood swing to her body she walked along, but when she had got back to her chair by the window of her room and when darkness had come on and a girl from the hotel dining room brought her dinner on a tray, she let it grow cold.  Her thoughts ran away to her girlhood with its passionate longing for adventure and she remembered the arms of men that had held her when adventure was a possible thing for her.  Particularly she remembered one who had for a time been her lover and who in the moment of his passion had cried out to her more than a hundred times, saying the same words madly over and over:  “You dear!  You dear!  You lovely dear!” The words, she thought, expressed something she would have liked to have achieved in life.

In her room in the shabby old hotel the sick wife of the hotel keeper began to weep and, putting her hands to her face, rocked back and forth.  The words of her one friend, Doctor Reefy, rang in her ears.  “Love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black night,” he had said.  “You must not try to make love definite.  It is the divine accident of life.  If you try to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made tender by kisses.”