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had not found at home. I had dreamed of the trip for a long time and had planned for it. I had felt that to be on the safe side I should have money enough for at least three months in the city, for I had known that once I left home I couldn't count on Dad and Mother for financial help — ^Dad is a doctor and a fine one, but he's also one of the kindest hearted men in the world, which means that he goes on taking care of his patients whether they can pay him or not. But even the knowledge that I would be completely on my own hadn't worried me. I'd saved every penny I cotdd spare out of my allowance and when my savings had reached the goal I'd decided on, I had set out, certain that before the three months were up I would be self-supporting.
I wasn't so certain of that now. I had interviewed so many prospective employers, filled out so many application cards that I could not remember all of them, and still I hadn't had a sign of encouragement.
And almost worse than worrying about a job was the appalling loneliness. At home I had known everyone and I had taken for granted that it would be just as easy to make friends elsewhere, but instead of the gaiety and companionship I had dreamed of there had been solitary evenings in this small hotel room. Here I was forced to admit on this dreary, rainy night, I was just another unknown. In all the thousands of people in the city there wasn't a single person who knew or cared what was happening to me.
It was strange, then, since I had no friends, that my phone should ring out in the silence. When I answered it, somewhat puzzled, a pleasant masculine voice asked, "Is this Miss Adams?" "Yes."
"I'm Bill Stuart," the voice went on. "I roomed with Tom at the University." From the pause that followed I realized the unknown speaker was waiting for a reply, but I couldn't remember knowing anyone named Tom.
"Tom?" I repeated at last.
We was fall, and he had dark hair which, berieath the lights, showed more than a trace of red.
"Yes." The unseen Mr. Stuart laughed. "Tom Richards — your cousin."
This was even more bewildering, for I haven't any cousin. "I think there must be some mistake," I began.
"Aren't you Elizabeth Adams?"
"Yes, I am, but — " abruptly the explanation flashed into my mind. Only this evening the hotel clerk had mentioned a former guest whose
name was the same as mine. "There was another girl named Elizabeth Adams who used to live here," I said slowly. "She must be the one you want."
"Oh-h." The long-drawn syllable held disappointment but there was more assurance in the next words. "I was calhng to ask Miss Adams if she would have dinner with me. Since she isn't there would you — I mean, Continued on page 59
MARCH, 1942
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