For she had turned the dream out of doors with Ann:  the wonderful dream which sheltered the heart of reality, dream through which waking had come, from which all the long dim paths of wondering had opened—­dream through which self had called.

And what was there left?

A house of hollow laughter was left—­of pretense—­“stunts”—­of prescribed rules and intolerance with all breakers of rules even though the breakers of rules were dreamers of dreams.

With a barely repressed sob she remembered what Ann had said in her story of her dog.  “I could have stood my own lonesomeness.  But what I couldn’t stand was thinking about him....  I couldn’t keep from thinking things that tortured me.”

It was that gnawed at the heart of it....  How go to bed that night without knowing that Ann had a bed?  She had loved Ann because Ann needed her, been tender to her because Ann was her charge.  She yearned for her now in fearing for her.  More sickening than the pain of having failed was the pain of wondering where Ann would get her breakfast.  Tears which she had been able to hold back even under the shame of her infidelity came uncontrollably with the simple thought that she might never do Ann’s hair for her again.

It seemed to Katie then that the one thing she could not do was go back to her guests.

A boy was coming on a bicycle.  He had a letter for Katie.

She excused herself and went to the little room to read it—­the same little room where they had been that afternoon.

It was but a hurried note.  He had found nothing at the station except that the Chicago train was probably there at the time.  Doubtless she had taken it.  He had taken a chance and wired the train asking her to wire Katie immediately.  That was all he could think of to do.  He was taking the night train for Chicago—­not that he knew of anything to do there, but perhaps she would like to feel there was some one there.  He would have to go soon anyhow—­might as well be that night.  He would be there three or four days.  He told Katie where to address him.  He would do anything she asked.

He advised her, for the time, to remain where she was.  Probably word would come to her there.  She might be able to do more from there than elsewhere.  It was not even certain Ann had gone to Chicago—­by no means certain.  And even if she had—­how find her there if she did not wish to be found?

At the last:  “I suppose you’re very gay at your dinner just now.  That must be tough business—­being gay.  Don’t let it harden your heart—­as gayety like that could so easily do.  And remember—­you’re going on! You’re not a quitter.  And it’s only the quitters stop when they fall down.”

Below, shyly off in one corner, written very lightly as if he scarcely dared write it, she found:  “You don’t know what a wonderful thing it is to me just to know that you are in the world.”

Katie went back to her guests with less gayety but more poise.