the young woman. Their finger-tips touched lightly, and Thelma felt the electric thrill penetrate to her marrow, as it traveled upward from her hand to other parts of her body.

The tall young woman smiled, and backed out of the door, closing it after her. The sound of her footsteps was audiblo, as she thumped down the eighteen steps to her basement apartment. Then the apartment door slammed shut. Thelma stood listening, shoving the papers back into the messy little desk.

She threw herself down on the bed and closed her eyes. She could feel the tingle of the alcohol reaching out and touching overy nerve in her body. Sometimes people have recurring dreams; sometimes people dream the same thing, over and over. She tried to recall all the details, to impress them on her mind so that her subconscious mind would soak them up and give them back to her. She turned over on her side, breathing heavily, and fell into a doop, dreamless slumber.

MOOD INDIGO?

SPLIT RHYTHMS, BROKEN HARMONIES, MOODS LIKE MELODIES IN MINOR KEY

PLAY AND INTERTWINE THE DAY

BEREFT OF FINAL MEANING.

AND YET, EACH MOOD A CLUE

BUILDS UP THE DOME OF FUTURE JOY.

WHETHER THE CRESCENDO BE A BURST OF SONG

OR A PEAL OF DOOM,

THE MUSIC OF THE MOMENT FILLS THE ROOM

WITH MELODY, THAT WAKES THE HEART TO SING OF PENDING, PERPETUAL, INDOMITABLE SPRING.

-

RUTH T. DROB

15