crown of bright unwavering flame. Then miraculously a great healing peace touched Elsa's heart, slowly smoothing away the scars and sufferings of the past month. Elsa stumbled into a deserted pew and fell upon her knees, sobbing with relief.

Morning after morning Elsa returned to the cathedral. She made no effort to understand the services or to speak to anyone, or to discover any connection between the cathedral and the calm that had brought respite to her spirit. She knew simply that the episode with Maxene had seemingly detached itself into the past and that she could breathe again. One morning she grew bold enough to think deliberately of Maxene. She would go to Maxene once more, she thought, this time with a cleansed heart and the hand of sisterly friendship. From the depths of her own forgiving heart she would ask Maxene to forgive her, and to forget.

She went to work that morning in a mood of exaltation which lent a luminous quality to her plain features and a new dignity to her manner. Her fellowworkers had by this time become completely mystified by Elsa, and no longer remarked at her abrupt changes of humour.

About mid-morning chance brought Maxene on business to another office on the fourteenth floor, just as Elsa had stepped out into the hall on an errand of her own. The two walked toward each other in the long, deserted corridor, and Maxene's face became glacial as she observed Elsa's approach. But Elsa was quite prepared. With both hands extended and an angelic expression upon her face, she turned squarely into Maxene's path.

"Maxene, my dear," she began, "I want to

But she got no further.

The cavernous hall echoed the noise of a vicious slap, and Elsa felt a brutal stinging blow across the mouth that hurled her against the wall, By the time. Elsa had recovered enough to look around, Maxene had disappeared. Elsa pressed a hand to her mouth and huddled against the wall. Deep inside her being she felt the fragile castle of her security melting away, her peace shattering. By a Herculean effort she held herself together until the workday was over. Then she sped home and back to the old torments to which were now added a dreadful, overwhelming doubt of her own soul.

At the cathedral next morning her spirit failed her utterly. The stained glass windows shone, the candlelight beamed, everything was the same except that the surroundings were now powerless to bring her their magical touch of solace. A heavy dull pain gripped her heart, she felt half-dead for want of sleep, and she sat with closed eyes till services were over. Back home, numb with hopelessness and exhaustion, she ate a morsel of breakfast and departed for work.

About eleventhirty that morning her supervisor, Mr. Jones, called her into his office. Usually the top of his desk was invisible under a clutter of correspondence and memoranda, and his summons would be the signal for several hours of constant dictation. But this morning his desk was bare except for a single sheet of paper which was placed before him. Even in her distracted state it was plain to Elsa that this was no common occasion. With the mien of a dumb creature awaiting the slaughteringknife, she sank into a chair, notebook unopened. Mr. Jones was a spare, balding man of late middle-age, with a refined, gentle face and a manner habitually kind and impersonal. This morning his features were drawn in a look of grave concern. For two or three minutes he sat silently, studying the paper before him.

"Elsa," he commenced at last, "perhaps it would be best if you would read this letter first. It explains itself. Then we will talk." He passed the letter to Elsa who took it with shaking hands. Her vision was blurred with tears and fatigue, and she held the paper close. It was official stationery, and the letter was carefully typewritten.

"Dear Mr. Jones," it began, "you have a person in your office name of Elsa. It is a disgrace to womanhood to have to work in the same building with her. She has made indecent, wicked advances to me in public restrooms and

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