the doorway to these secret chambers of memory became more and more difficult to open. The life in his young body, and the realism of his young mind began to assert themselves again, and, one Sunday, after he had barely begun his customary ramble, he stopped on the roadside, and turned, and with a pause, a sigh, and a silent invocation of Greg's name, he had retraced his steps towards town. It was the last of these excursions, and the beginning of a new road.

The previous summer, John and Greg had spent a month ni the nearby metropolis of NThey had made a number of acquaintances, and after returning home, were filled with ambitious plans. John would leave his job with the local insurance company, and Greg his job at the dairy, and both would try to find work together at one of N's busy factories. They would share an apartment, and together find a freer life, and a circle of friends who would be congenial and understanding. Now John, with a lump of sadness in his throat, drove his mind to a recollection of these plans. Certainly, his own town was becoming too much for him to bear. Every street, every corner held an image of Greg. Gloria's face had become a constant, stabbing reminder. He came to dread the hour of five, when Greg had always phoned, because now there was no call. The very kindness of his neighbors, who tried in every way to console and divert him, had become intolerable. Yes, he finally decided, he would go to N and find forgetfulness and a new outlook upon the future. One week in late summer, after a series of hasty letters and telephone calls to N he packed his things. He had been offered employment at the office of a steel. factory, and was to start the following Monday.

He knew that his move would be a thunderbolt to Gloria and her family. So far, he had not mentioned his plans to them, and now he wondered how best to announce the news. He decided to wait until Sunday noon, after they all had come from church and were at lunch together, as was their habit. When the time came, he was sitting across the dining-table from Gloria, her parents on either side. She looked more herself today than she had in months. John groaned inwardly to see how much of Greg was in her smile.

"Folks," he said suddenly, clearing his throat, and interrupting Gloria's mother almost in the middle of a sentence, "there's something I've got to tell you and I might as well get it out now." He paused while they all looked at him, startled at his manner. "I'm leaving town this afternoon. I'm going to live in N. I've been offered I've been offered a job at the Perris works." He looked down and toyed with his food, in a silence that almost exploded around him. When he looked up again, the light had fled from Gloria's face, and her young eyes were fixed on his in hurt astonishment. The older two were looking out the window, too shocked to make an immediate reply. John felt stricken. All at once, the three seemed very dear, very necessary to him.

"Well, John . . ." Gloria's father found his voice. "We know that you aren't very happy here ... now..." He wiped his mouth nervously, and got up from the table. Gloria's mother reached over and took John's hand, and began to cry.

"John, John . . ." she whispered, tremulously. "You're the only son we have since Greg . . . since Greg..." But she could not finish. It was Gloria who finally rescued the situation from an abyss of gloom.

"What fun!" she exclaimed, forcing a smile. "I've always wanted a good excuse to visit Nand here it is!" Walking around the table, she laid an arm around John's shoulders, still smiling, her eyes bright with tears. "Mother and Dad and I will all come to visit you this Christmas, won't we?" She looked around at them, silently commanding them to join her mood. At last they responded, and the tension broke into warm and honest conversation.

Shortly before John was to leave, Gloria pulled him into the kitchen.

"John," she began in a low, tense voice, "you've never said anything more to me about . . . about what we talked of the day after Greg's funeral, but... you don't have to now, because now I think I know." She fell quiet, and began to fumble with John's necktie, hesistant about how to proceed. It was obvious that she wanted to embrace John, and was restrained only by the reserve which he customarily displayed toward her. But moments were precious, and her parents were already preparing to go with John to the station.

"You loved each other, didn't you," she continued, haste compelling her into bluntness, "I mean, in the same way... that I feel about you. Oh, John, I think I understand . . . there could have been nothing bad. Greg was so good, and so are you, and . . . that must have made everything... well... right. Love does make everything right, I think . . ." With the simplicity and innocence of her youth, she cut asunder a thousand moral knots. "John, do you think you will ever let me keep my promise to Greg. . .?"

John felt his composure melt under Gloria's outspoken way, under the keenness of her perception. He looked down towards the eyes and face that held so much of Greg in them, while he sought for an answer to her commanding question. How could he answer, he thought, what could he answer that would be an honest answer for himself, yet would not wound her?

"Be patient, Gloria, be patient..." were almost all the words he could find. "Time will change both of us, perhaps in the way Greg wanted. But now I don't know, . . . I just don't know." He stooped quickly and kissed Gloria on the forehead. "Now we have to get along."

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