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For so it had, into his very pocket.

“Berrien!” he called. But she was busy

With her own bother.

“Daniel, a woman’s here—

Wants to stay and board all summer—wants

To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no,

But maybe—”

Who was the gold one, listening there

And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder

And lighting the front room with little smiles?

A faded gold one, well beyond her prime,

But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned

And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated,

Said he would think, would figure.

In the end

She stayed, the theater woman; and that night

Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed

In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.”

How could she know of Dora? It was a dream,

Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed,

All in one day, the longing he denied?

There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart—

That sweetened as he said it—there was no hate

For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too,

Standing beside the theater woman and weeping,

And holding her simple hands out so he could say: