And thinking thus, perhaps because of her weariness, perhaps because
of some chance word dropped by the girls as they talked of their
school and schoolmates, the woman went back again into her
Yesterdays--to the schoolmates of her Yesterdays. The world in which
she now lived and labored was forgotten. Forgotten were the worries
and troubles of her grown up life--forgotten the trials and
disappointments--forgotten the new friends, the uncongenial
acquaintances, the cruel knowledge, the heartless business--forgotten
everything of the present--all, all, was lost in a golden mist of the
long ago.

The tall, graceful, girl holding to a strap at the forward end of the
car, in the woman's Yesterdays, lived just beyond the white church at
the corner. The dark haired, dark eyed, round faced one, she knew as
the minister's daughter. While the dainty, doll like, miss clinging to
her sturdier sister, in those days of long ago, was the woman's own
particular chum. And the girl with the yellow curls--the one with the
golden hair--the blue eyed, and the brown--the slender and the
stout--every one--belonged to the tired woman's Yesterdays--every one
she had known in the past and to each she gave a name.

And then--as the woman, watching the young schoolgirls in the crowded
car, lived once again those days of the old schoolhouse on the hill
where, with her girl companions of the long ago, she sought the
beginnings of Knowledge--the boys came, too. Just as in the Yesterdays
they had come to take their places in the old schoolroom, they came,
now, to take their places in the woman's memory.

There was the tall, thin, lad whose shoulders seemed, even in his