But she became
accustomed to it, and settled into the routine of passing the
orders along the proper channels with as little individual
thought given to each one as was compatible with efficiency. She
became acquainted with some of the girls, and changed to a better
boarding house. She still cried over the wooh-wooh and the little
garments, but she did not cry so often, nor did she buy so many
headache tablets. She was learning the futility of grief and the
wisdom of turning her back upon sorrow when she could. The sight
of a two-year-old baby boy would still bring tears to her eyes,
and she could not sit through a picture show that had scenes of
children and happy married couples, but she fought the pain of it
as a weakness which she must overcome. Her Lovin Child was gone;
she had given up everything but the sweet, poignant memory of how
pretty he had been and how endearing.
Then, one morning in early June, her practiced fingers were
going through the pile of mail orders and they singled out one
that carried the postmark of Alpine. Marie bit her lips, but her
fingers did not falter in their task. Cheap table linen, cheap
collars, cheap suits or cheap something-or-other was wanted, she
had no doubt.
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