Tomorrow Is Forever by Gwen Bristow Page A

her. They urged her to go out with them, saying it would do her good. She tried going out, but it did her no good whatever. For they did the same things in the same places as when Arthur had been among them; whether they played in the snow or had dinner at a favorite restaurant or sat around someone’s fire and talked, every gathering reminded her of him. She would come home and sit down wearily, sorry she had gone. It was easier staying at home, where at least she did not have to put up any ghastly pretense of being cheerful.
    And then one morning, in the spring after the Armistice, she discovered that she did not have much money left to live on.
    It gave her a start, not because she had thought she was rich but because in the past few months she had not thought about it at all. She had been spending very little, mechanically writing checks for such necessities as food and rent since it was part of the inescapable routine. When a phone call from Uncle Clarence—who had again constituted himself her guardian, as he saw she was in no state to attend to her affairs herself—advised her that she should meet him at the bank the next morning, she obeyed his summons, mildly wondering what it was about. Uncle Clarence and the bank vice-president told her it was to make arrangements for her pension as a soldier’s widow.
    The words revolted her. Without trying to understand her reaction, she exclaimed in protest. Arthur had given his life for his country and that was all there was to it. Nothing his country could give her could restore him and she had no desire for anything else. But when she tried to tell them this, Uncle Clarence and the banker, two kindly men with gray mustaches and sympathetic if astonished eyes, explained to her as gently as they could that it would be very foolish of her to insist that she had no need of a pension, since she unquestionably had. Most of what her father left had been spent on her education. And then—didn’t she remember?—when she married she had spent a good deal on furnishing her home. Arthur’s insurance, though as much as he could have afforded, was small—and in short, the American lawmakers had taken all these matters into account when they provided pensions for the widows of men who died for their country. Uncle Clarence knew this was a painful subject; he would have liked to spare her these details, in fact, he had already attended to everything, but there were a few forms to be filled out, and then her signature here, and here, and here —the banker dipped the pen into the ink and held it out, the handle pointing to her.
    Elizabeth took the pen and looked at it an instant, then as though it were a horrid object she threw it down on the blotter and stood up. “No!” she exclaimed, and she meant it, though she could not just then have told what prompted her. “No. I don’t want the government to pay me for Arthur. I can earn my own living. I’d rather.”
    Before they could reply she ran out of the bank, leaving Uncle Clarence to apologize for her strange behavior, and the banker to answer Uncle Clarence that it was quite all right, he understood, the poor girl was young and had no idea of money, and she had undoubtedly received a great blow, just come back when she’s more reasonable, glad to see you both any time.
    Elizabeth was walking quickly along the street. She felt somehow strong and free, stronger and freer than she had felt since the day she had received that terrible telegram. All her senses were abruptly alert. She noticed that there was a tingle of spring in the air. People were walking fast, as if they had somewhere of importance to go. All of a sudden she stopped in front of a store window and said “Ah!”—not an audible exclamation, just the swift little catch of her breath that she would have given this time last year at the sight of a smart black hat with a red feather.
    Her thrill was gone in