perhaps it was the twittering, chirping, presence of the feathery folk
who hopped and flitted so cheerily in and out among the shrubs and
flowers--whatever it was that brought it about, the life that crowded
her so closely drifted far, far, away. The city with its noisy clamor,
with its mad rush and unceasing turmoil, was gone. The world of
danger, and doubt, and fear, was forgotten. The woman lived again the
days that were gone. The sky so blue above her head was the sky that
arched her days of long ago. The sunshine that filtered through the
trees was the same golden wealth that enriched the days of her
childhood. The twittering, chirping, feathery, folk were telling the
same old stories. The little brook that went so merrily on its way was
singing a song of the Yesterdays.

They were free days--those Yesterdays--free as the days of the
feathery folk who lived among the shrubs and flowers. There was none
of the knowledge that, with distrust and doubt and despair, shuts in
the soul. They were bright days--those Yesterdays--as bright as the
sunlight that out of a clear sky comes to glorify the world. There was
none of that dark and dreadful knowledge that shrouds the soul in
gloom. And they were glad days--those Yesterdays--glad with the
gladness of the singing brook. There was none of that knowledge that
stains and saddens the heart.

The woman, sitting there so still by the little brook, did not notice
a well dressed man who was strolling slowly through the park. A little
way down the walk, the man turned, and again went slowly past the
place where the woman sat. Once more he turned and this time seated
himself where he could watch her. The man's face was not a good face.
For a little while he watched the woman, then rising, was starting
leisurely toward her when the gray haired policeman came suddenly into