selves away; usually because they were so unaware of themselves, perhaps always would be unaware. The irls were more likely to understand, but when they did it was so often with anguish and shame. But this could it be? The girl was so natural, so matter-of-fact-exactly as Jinny had been. Barbara had tried to help those others, to give them some sane reassurance, but never had she intimated anything about herself. Barbara knew she must say something now. but what. she could not think.

"Was this a gay bar?"

The girl overlooked the ease with which she had used the word. but not the word itself.

"No. We went to this place with another couple though, two girls, and Nan, that's her name, got drunk, and -I mean that's why it was so funny really. I wouldn't take her to a gay bar-

"Why not?" Barbara knew that she was marking time.

"I was afraid to. She'd never been to one, she said, and I was afraid she'd find somebody else, or she'd let somebody pick her up."

"So she found someone anyway?" "I'll say she did."

Barbara ground the cigarette into the ash tray, and went on.

"Did you love her?"

"In a way. It's hard not to love people after a while, after you've known them a long time." The girl's voice was perfectly even, and contained just a hint of laughter.

Well, thought Barbara, she's not a sentimental schoolgirl.

"And is that to be the story?" "Not really, no. It's more a story of realization

For the first time, to Barbara's surprise, the girl seemed to need prompting.

"You mean the realization of being

gay?"

"No. No, not that at all."

"What is it, then?"

"Knowing that it's life, that's all, just life you know, nothing special -it can be silly or stupid or sad, or beautiful."

The girl was looking at the reproduction hung over the desk, an English hunting scene. Really, Barbara thought, her description had been right-a young boy of the Renaissance, aware of his own clean elegance, the tilt of the head both proud and shy, conscious of appraisal and approval, but not bold; and if the mouth was capable of irony, and it undoubtedly was, it did not show it now. Barbara looked at the name written in a firm, rather ornate script at the top of the first page: Kathryn Mackay.

Barbara smiled. "I like it. I'd like it even better finished. Why not write out a rough draft and then let me see it."

The girl buttoned her jacket. "O.K. I will. Thank you."

They stood for a moment together on the porch. The blue of the sky had deepened, and the wind had dropped down upon them. It drove before it the few leaves left over from winter, from fall. A sudden cascade of bells from the tower sounded above the trees. I feel so alive, Barbara thought to herself. It's been so long, so very long.

"Run to dinner, dear. Don't be

late."

The girl's head lifted, and the slow marvelous smile turned bright. A second later Barbara found her hands on the girl's straight shoulders, and felt herself gathered into a swift, sure embrace, surprisingly strong, surprisingly gentle. Then, before she knew it, the girl had turned and was running up the hill. A thousand blackbirds shimmered and danced across the sky, and Barbara, leaning now against the open door, watched until the last was out of sight.