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strong enough he might take her to the place where he found her, and perhaps that would bring back memories. But no, that would not do, for the utter sorrow and abandonment of her whole attitude showed that she must have sustained some great shock or she would not be in this condition.
    But the days went by, and little by little Janice came slowly back to life again.

Chapter 3
    M artha Spicer lived a little over a hundred and fifty miles from Enderby where the hospital was located.
    For twenty-seven years she had served, first as saleswoman and then as buyer for women’s underwear and stockings, in a large department store. That she had been successful was proved by her rapid rise, and the deference that was paid to her by floorwalkers, salespeople, and other store officials. But that her temper had suffered through the various trials of her position was apparent in the lines of impatience and discontent written on brow and lips, marring a face that would otherwise have been attractive.
    She was not an unpleasant-looking woman. Her features were regular and finely cut, her skin was clear and smooth, her hair abundant and becomingly gray, though too severely arranged. She was always immaculately neat, though severely plain. Her lips had that firm set that gave one the impression she thought it was wrong to look pretty. Poor thing! She had been so severely tried by the little snips of salesgirls whose thoughts were on the arrangement of their hair and the height of the heels on their shining pumps, that perhaps one could hardly blame her. But there was about Miss Spicer’s eyes a kind of fire that danced now and then through the hardness she had cultivated, and made one feel that very many years ago, before she had been obliged to look out for herself and be discreet and responsible, she might have had a lot of mischief in her, and perhaps been almost beautiful.
    But if there had been mischief and merriment in Martha Spicer, it had long ago retired meekly into the background. If someone had boldly told her that she had been starved for years for a little bit of real fun, she would have looked at them aghast and put on her most biting glance, the one she kept for customers who brought back the silk stockings they had purchased, declaring that they already had runs in them when they were sent up.
    Martha Spicer had been thrown upon her own resources since she was eighteen, and the world at first had been most unkind to her. There had been the death of her father and mother, the utter loss of all the property—what little there had been, for her girlhood life had been spent in poverty from her earliest remembrance. Then the man to whom she had turned proved inadequate and she found herself sending him away to another girl, bitterness and defiance in her own heart. It was about that time she began to earn the title of “Spice Box” in the store, and in more modified ways it had stuck to her through the years.
    But she had kept to herself, been independent and diligent, always within the bounds of refinement, neatness, and conventionality. She had lived her dull round of monotony now for twenty-seven years.
    She had an aunt and uncle, her only near relatives, a somber couple, who kept up a semblance of being in touch with her, though she never taxed their companionship to any extent. Twice a year she had visited them, Aunt Abigail and Uncle Jonathan, always with some small gifts from the store, such as handkerchiefs, neckties, and collars. And they on their part had brought out the best preserves for supper and commended her for her diligence and prudence. Then they had gone their separate ways again until the time for the next semiannual visit was due.
    They had suggested years ago that she might live with them and pay her board, but she dreaded the very thought of living with them. They had not wanted her, she was sure, and she did not want them. They lived far from her department store. And they seemed satisfied with her