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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d254402 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51579 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51579) diff --git a/old/51579-8.txt b/old/51579-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5edf6fb..0000000 --- a/old/51579-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6389 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Daughter of the Morning, by Zona Gale, -Illustrated by W. B. King - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: A Daughter of the Morning - - -Author: Zona Gale - - - -Release Date: March 28, 2016 [eBook #51579] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING*** - - -E-text prepared by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustrations. - See 51579-h.htm or 51579-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51579/51579-h/51579-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51579/51579-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/daughterofmornin00galerich - - - - - -A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING - - -[Illustration: Cosma] - - -A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING - -by - -ZONA GALE - -Author of -Friendship Village, When I Was a Little Girl -Neighborhood Stories, etc. - -Illustrated by W. B. King - - - - - - - -Indianapolis -The Bobbs-Merrill Company -Publishers - -Copyright 1917 -The Bobbs-Merrill Company - -Press of -Braunworth & Co. -Book Manufacturers -Brooklyn, N. Y. - - - - -A Daughter of the Morning - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -I found this paper on the cellar shelf. It come around the boys' new -overalls. When I was cutting it up in sheets with the butcher knife on -the kitchen table, Ma come in, and she says: - -"What you doin' _now_?" - -The way she says "now" made me feel like I've felt before--mad and ready -to fly. So I says it right out, that I'd meant to keep a secret. I says: - -"I'm makin' me a book." - -"Book!" she says. "For the receipts you know?" she says, and laughed -like she knows how. I hate cooking, and she knows it. - -I went on tying it up. - -"Be writing a book next, I s'pose," says Ma, and laughed again. - -"It ain't that kind of a book," I says. "This is just to keep track." - -"Well, you'd best be doing something useful," says Ma. "Go out and pull -up some radishes for your Pa's supper." - -I went on tying up the sheets, though, with pink string that come around -Pa's patent medicine. When it was done I run my hand over the page, and -I liked the feeling on my hand. Then I saw Ma coming up the back steps -with the radishes. I was going to say something, because I hadn't gone -to get them, but she says: - -"Nobody ever tries to save me a foot of travelin' around." - -And then I didn't care whether I said it or not. So I kept still. She -washed off the radishes, bending over the sink that's in too low. She'd -wet the front of her skirt with some suds of something she'd washed out, -and her cuffs was wet, and her hair was coming down. - -"It's rack around from morning till night," she says, "doing for folks -that don't care about anything so's they get their stomachs filled." - -"You might talk," I says, "if you was Mis' Keddie Bingy." - -"Why? Has anything more happened to her?" Ma asked. - -"Nothing new," I says. "Keddie was drinking all over the house last -night. I heard him singing and swearing--and once I heard her scream." - -"He'll kill her yet," says Ma. "And then she'll be through with it. I'm -so tired to-night I wisht I was dead. All day long I've been at -it--floors to mop, dinner to get, water to lug." - -"Quit going on about it, Ma," I says. - -"You're a pretty one to talk to me like that," says Ma. - -She set the radishes on the kitchen table and went to the back door. One -of her shoes dragged at the heel, and a piece of her skirt hung below -her dress. - -"Jim!" she shouted, "your supper's ready. Come along and eat it,"--and -stood there twisting her hair up. - -Pa come up on the porch in a minute. His feet were all mud from the -fields, and the minute he stepped on Ma's clean floor she begun on him. -He never said a word, but he tracked back and forth from the wash bench -to the water pail, making his big black footprints every step. I should -think she _would_ have been mad. But she said what she said about half a -dozen times--not mad, only just whining and complaining and like she -expected it. The trouble was, she said it so many times. - -"When you go on so, I don't care how I track up," says Pa, and dropped -down to the table. He filled up his plate and doubled down over it, and -Ma and I got ours. - -"What was you and Stacy talkin' about so long over the fence?" Ma says, -after a while. - -"It's no concern of yours," says Pa. "But I'll tell ye, just to show ye -what some women have to put up with. Keddie Bingy hit her over the head -with a dish in the night. It's laid her up, and he's down to the Dew -Drop Inn, filling himself full." - -"She's used to it by this time, I guess," Ma says. "Just as well take -it all at once as die by inches, _I_ say." - -"Trot out your pie," says Pa. - -As soon as I could after we'd done the dishes, I took my book up to the -room. Ma and I slept together. Pa had the bedroom off the dining-room. I -had the bottom bureau drawer to myself for my clothes. I put my book in -there, and I found a pencil in the machine drawer, and I put that by it. -I'd wanted to make the book for a long time, to set down thoughts in, -and keep track of the different things. But I didn't feel like making -the book any more by the time I got it all ready. I went to laying out -my underclothes in the drawer so's the lace edge would show on all of -'em that had it. - -Ma come to the side door and called me. - -"Cossy," she says, "is Luke comin' to-night?" - -"I s'pose so," I says. - -"Well, then, you go right straight over to Mis' Bingy's before he gets -here," Ma says. - -I went down the stairs--they had a blotched carpet that I hated because -it looked like raw meat and gristle. - -"Why don't you go yourself?" I says. - -"Because Mis' Bingy'll be ashamed before me," she says; "but she won't -think you know about it. Take her this." - -I took the loaf of steam brown bread. - -"If Luke comes," I says, "have him walk along after me." - -The way to Mis' Bingy's was longer to go by the road, or short through -the wood-lot. I went by the road, because I thought maybe I might meet -somebody. The worst of the farm wasn't only the work. It was never -seein' anybody. I only met a few wagons, and none of 'em stopped to say -anything. Lena Curtsy went by, dressed up in black-and-white, with a -long veil. She looks like a circus rider, not only Sundays but every -day. But Luke likes the look of her, he said so. - -"You're goin' the wrong way, Cossy!" she calls out. - -"No, I ain't, either," I says, short enough. I can't bear the sight of -her. And yet, if I have anything to brag about, it's always her I want -to brag it to. - -Just when I turned off to Bingy's, I met the boys. We never waited -supper for 'em, because sometimes they get home and sometimes they -don't. They were coming from the end of the street-car line, black from -the blast furnace. - -"Where you goin', kid?" says Bert. - -I nodded to the house. - -"Well, then, tell her she'd better watch out for Bingy," says Henny. -"He's crazy drunk down to the Dew Drop. I wouldn't stay there if I was -her." - -I ran the rest of the way to the Bingy house. I went round to the back -door. Mis' Bingy was in the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the bed. She -had the bed put up in the kitchen when the baby was born, and she'd kept -it there all the year. When I stepped on to the boards, she jumped and -screamed. - -"Here's some steam brown bread," I says. - -She set down again, trembling all over. The baby was laying over back in -the bed, and it woke up and whimpered. Mis' Bingy kind of poored it -with one hand, and with the other she pushed up the bandage around her -head. She was big and wild-looking, and her hair was always coming down -in a long, coiled-up mess on her shoulders. Her hands looked worse than -Ma's. - -"I guess I look funny, don't I?" she says, trying to smile. "I cut my -head open some--by accident." - -I hate a lie. Not because it's wicked so much as because it never fools -anybody. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "I know that Mr. Bingy threw a dish at you last -night and cut your head open, because he was drunk. Well, I just met -Henny, and he says he's down to the Inn, crazy drunk. Henny don't want -you should stay here." - -She kind of give out, as though her spine wouldn't hold up. I guess she -had the idea none of the neighbors knew. - -"Where can I go?" she says. - -There was only one place that I could think of. "Come on over with me," -I says. "Pa and the boys are there. They won't let him hurt you." - -She shook her head. "I'd have to come back some time," she says. - -"Why would you?" I asked her. - -She looked at me kind of funny. - -"He's my husband," she says--and she kind of straightened up and looked -dignified, without meaning to. I just stood and looked at her. Think of -it making her look like that to own that drunken coward for a husband! - -"What if he is?" I says. "He's a brute, and we all know it." - -She cried a little. "You hadn't ought to speak to me so," she says. "If -I go, how'll I earn my living, and the baby's?" she says. - -I hadn't thought of that. "That's so," I says. "You are tied, ain't -you?" - -I couldn't get her to come with me. She's got the bed made up in the -front room up-stairs, and she was going up there that night and lock her -door, and leave the kitchen open. - -"He may not be so bad," she says. "Maybe he'll be so drunk he'll tumble -on the bed asleep, or maybe he'll be sick. I always hope for one of -them." - -I went back through the wood-lot. It was so different out there from -home and Mis' Bingy's that it felt good. I found a place in a book once -that told about the woods. It gave me a nice feeling. I used to get it -out of the school library whenever it was in and read the place over, to -get the feeling again. Almost always it gave it to me. In the real woods -I didn't always get it. They come so close up to me that they bothered -me. I always thought I was going to get to something, and I never did. -And yet I always liked it in the wood-lot. And it was nice to be away -from home and from Mis' Bingy's. - -I forgot the whole bunch of 'em for a while. It was the night of a moon, -and you could see it in the trees, like a big fat face that was friends -with you. When a bird did just one note, it felt pleasant. After a while -I stopped still, because it seemed as if something was near to me; but I -wasn't scared, even if it was quite dark. I thought to myself that I -wisht my family and all the folks I knew was still and kept to -themselves same as the trees does, instead of rushing at you every -minute, out loud. I never knew any folks that acted different from that, -though. Luke was just like that, too. - -I was thinking of this when I see him coming to meet me, down the path. -He ain't a big man, Luke. - -"Hello, Cossy," he says. "That you?" - -"Hello, Luke," I says. I dunno why it is--with the boys at home I can -joke. But Luke, he always makes me feel just plain. I just says "Hello, -Luke," and stood still, and waited for him to come up to me. He turned -and walked along beside me. - -"I was afraid I wouldn't meet you," he says. "I was afraid I'd miss you. -My, it's a good thing to get you somewheres by yourself." - -"Why?" I says. - -"Oh, the boys are always around, or your pa, or somebody. I've got a -right to talk to you sometimes by yourself." - -"Well, go ahead, then. Talk to me." - -All of a sudden he stopped still in the path. - -"Do you mean that?" he ask. - -"Mean what?" I says. I couldn't think what he meant. - -"That I can talk to you now? My way?" - -"Oh," I says. I knew then. I guess I should have known before, if I'd -stopped to think. But someway I never could put my mind on Luke all the -time he was saying anything. - -"Cossy," he says, "I've tried to talk to you; you always got round it or -else somebody else come in. You know what I want." - -I didn't say anything. I sort of waited, not so much to see what he was -going to do as to see what I was going to do. - -Then he didn't say anything. But he put his arm around me, and put his -hand around my arm. I let him. I wasn't mad, so I didn't pretend. - -"Let's us sit down here," he says. - -We sat under a big tree and he drew my head down on his shoulder. - -"You're all kinds of a peach," he says, "that's what you are, Cossy--I -bet you've known for weeks I want you to marry me. Ain't you?" - -"Yes," I says, "I s'pose I have." - -He laughed. "You're a funny girl," he says. - -"It's silly to pretend," I says. - -"You bet," he says, "it's silly to pretend. Give me a kiss, then. Kiss -me yourself." - -I did. I had to see whether I was pretending not to want to, or whether -I really didn't want to. I see right away that I didn't want to. - -"Marry me, Cossy," he says. "Will you?" - -I was twenty years old. For a long time Ma had been asking me why I -didn't marry some nice young man. "Marry some nice young man," she says. -"You'll be happier, Cossy." Why would I be happier, I wondered. What -would make me happy? There would be, I supposed, a great deal of this -kind of thing. I thought it was honest to talk it over with Luke. - -"What for?" I says. - -"Because I love you," says Luke serious; "and I want you." - -I laughed out loud. "Them's funny reasons for a bargain," I says. - -He kind of drew off. "Oh, well," he says, "it's all I've got. If you -don't think it amounts to anything--" - -"That's why you should marry me," I says. "But I want to know why I -should marry you." - -"Don't you love me?" says Luke. - -"I donno," I told him. "I don't like to kiss you so very well." - -"Cossy, listen," Luke said. "All that'll come. Honest, it will, dear. -Just trust me, and marry me. I need you." - -"Well, but, Luke," I says, "I donno if I need you. I don't believe I -do." - -"You listen here," he says, sort of mad. "You'll have a home of your -own--" - -"Why, wouldn't I live on your folks's farm?" I says. - -"Oh, well, yes," Luke says. "But--I love you, Cossy!" he ends up. "Can't -you understand? I love you." - -He said it like the reason. I begun to think it was. - -"You've got to marry somebody," says Luke. - -I knew that well enough. Home was bad enough now, but when one of the -boys brought a wife there it would be worse. I'd have to marry somebody. - -"I'd like to get away from home," I says. "Ma and I don't get along, and -Pa's like a bear the whole time." - -"You'd ought not to say such things, Cossy," says Luke. - -"Why not?" I says. "They're true. That is about the only reason I can -think of why I should marry you. That, and because I've got to marry -somebody." - -I thought he'd be mad. Instead, he had his arms around me and was -kissing me. - -"I don't care what you marry me for," he says. "Marry me, anyhow!" - -I thought: "I s'pose I'd get used to him. I don't like the boys, either. -I can't bear Henny. Every girl seems to act as if it was all right, -after she gets away. Maybe it is." - -Two people were coming along the path. Luke and I sat still--it was so -dark nobody could notice us where we were. I heard them talking and then -I heard Ma's voice. I knew right off Henny had told her about Keddie, -and she was going to try to get Mis' Bingy to come home with us. - -" ... On my feet from morning till night," she was saying, "till it -seems as though I should drop. I don't know how I stand it." - -Pa was with her. "Stand it, stand it!" he says. "Anybody'd think you had -the pest in the house. I'm sick of hearin' you whine." - -"I know," says Ma, "nobody thinks I'm worth anything now. But after I'm -dead and gone--" - -"Oh, shut up," says Pa. And they went by us. - -I stood up, all of a sudden. Anything would be better than home. - -"Luke--" I says. - -In a few years maybe him and me would be talking the same as Ma and Pa. -Maybe he'd be hanging around the Dew Drop Inn, same as Keddie Bingy. -What of it? All women took the chance. - -"Luke," I says, "all right." - -"Do you mean you will?" says Luke. I liked him the best I'd ever liked -him, the way he says that. - -"I said 'all right,'" I says. "You be a good husband to me and I'll be a -good wife to you." - -Luke kind of scared me, he was so glad. - -On the way home he didn't talk much. As soon as we got to our house I -made him go. I'd begun to feel the tired way I do every time I'm with -him--as if I'd ironed or done up fruit. - -Ma and Pa hadn't come back yet. I went up to Ma's and my room and lit -the lamp. It was on a bracket, and stuck up behind it was a picture of -me when I was a baby. I just stood and stared at it. I hadn't thought of -it before--but what if Luke and I should have one? - -"No, sir! No, sir! No, sir!" I says, all the while I put myself to bed. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Toward morning I heard somebody scream. I was dreaming that I was with -Luke in the grove, and that he touched my hand, and that it was me that -screamed. I heard it again and again, with another noise. Then I woke -up. It wasn't me. It was somebody else. - -I sat up in bed and shook Ma. She snores, and I couldn't hardly wake -her. By the time she sat up I heard Pa move. When we got to the stairs I -heard him at the back door. - -"What's wanted?" I heard him say. - -"Quick, quick! Lemme in! Lemme in!" I heard from outside. I knew it was -Mis' Bingy. We got down-stairs just as Pa opened the door, and she come -in. Everything about her was blowing--her long hair and her outing -nightgown and the baby's shawl. She could hardly breathe, and she leaned -against the door and tried to lock it. I went and locked it for her. -She sat down, and the baby was awake and crying, so she jounced it up -and down, without knowing she was doing it, while she told what was the -matter. She twisted up her hair, and I didn't think she knew she done -that, either. She had on a blue calico waist to a work dress, over her -nightgown, and her bare feet were in shoes, with the laces dangling. Ma -took one look at her, and went and put on the teakettle. She said -afterward she never knew she done that, either. - -Mis' Bingy told us what happened. She had been laying awake up-stairs -when he come home. He called her, and she didn't answer. Then he brought -a flatiron and beat at the door. Then he yelled that he'd bring the ax. -When he went for it, she slipped out of her bedroom and locked the door, -and hid in the closet under the stairs till she heard him run up 'em. -Then she started. - -"He'll kill me," she says. "He said he'd kill me. I've never known him -like this before." - -Pa come back from his room, part dressed. - -"I'll go and get the constable," he says. - -"Oh," says Mis' Bingy, "don't arrest him! Don't do that!" - -"Lookin' for to be killed?" says Pa. "And us, too, for a-harborin' you -here?" - -She fell to crying then, and the baby cried. Mis' Bingy said things to -herself that we couldn't understand. Ma come and brought her a cup of -hot water with the tea that was left in the teapot poured in it. Ma had -a calico skirt around her shoulders, and she was in her bare feet. - -"He'll kill _you_," Ma says to Pa, "on your way to the constable. I -wouldn't go past that house for anything, to-night." - -I remember how anxious she looked at him. She was anxious, like Mis' -Bingy'd been when she said not to arrest Keddie. - -Pa muttered, but he didn't go out. In a little while, Ma said best get -some rest, so we went up to the room again, and took Mis' Bingy. Her and -Ma laid down on the bed, and I got the canvas cot that was folded up in -there. My feet stuck out, and I couldn't go to sleep. But the funny -thing to me was that both Ma and Mis' Bingy went to sleep in a little -while. - -I laid there, waiting for it to get light. The window was a little bit -gray, and off in the wood-lot I could hear a bird wake up and go to -sleep again. I liked it. Early in the morning always seemed to me like -some other time. Things acted as if they was something else. Even the -bureau looked different.... Pretty soon the sky changed, and the dark -was thin enough so I could see Ma and Mis' Bingy. Ma's light-colored -hair had got all around her face. I thought how young she looked asleep. -She looked so little and soft. She looked as if she'd be nice. I guess -she would have been if she hadn't had so much to do. I never remembered -her when she didn't have too much to do, except once when she broke her -arm; and her arm hurt her so that she was cross anyway. Once, when the -boys bought her a plaid silk, she was nice for two days; but then -wash-day come and spoiled it again, and she couldn't get back. - -Ma never had much. I don't believe any of us know her like she'd be if -she had things to do with, and didn't have to work so hard, and Pa and -the boys wasn't all the time picking on her. They all say mean things. I -do, too, of course. I always dread our meals. We don't scrap over -anything particular, but everything that comes up, somebody's always got -some lip to answer back. And Ma's easy teased and always looking for -slaps. That's me, too; I'm easy teased, though I don't look for it. -Laying there asleep, Ma seemed like somebody I didn't know, and I felt -sorry for her. She was having a rotten life. - -And Mis' Bingy. The bandage was off her head, and I saw the big red -mark. She was awful thin and blue-looking, with cords in her neck. She -was young, not more than thirty. Ma was old; Ma was forty, and, awake, -she looked it. I could see Mis' Bingy's bare arm, and it was strong as -an ox. It laid around the baby, that was sleeping on her chest. I liked -to look at it. But I thought about her life, too, and I wondered how -either Ma or her kept going at all. And what made them willing to. -Neither of 'em was having a real life. Look what love had brought them -to.... - -_And there was me, starting in the same way, with Luke._ - -It was broad daylight by then, so I could see around the room. There -wasn't a carpet, and the plaster was cracked. So was the pitcher, that -was just for show, anyhow, because we washed in the kitchen. I'd tried -to fill it for a while, but Ma said it was putting on. In a little bit -we would all be sprucing up in the kitchen, with Ma trying to get -breakfast and everybody yipping out at everybody else. - -_And I'd just fixed it so's that all my life would be the same thing as -their lives._ - -I slipped out of bed and began to dress. It wasn't Sunday, but I opened -the drawer where my underclothes were, and took out them that had lace -edging. I put on my best shoes and my white stockings. Then I went out -in the hall closet and got down my new muslin that I'd worn only once -that summer, and I took it over my arm and went down in the kitchen. -When I was all ready I went through the door that opened stillest, and -outdoors. - -Out there was as different as if it didn't belong. You thought of the -fresh smell of it before you thought of anything else. Nothing about it -had been used. And the thin sunshine come right at you, slanting. Over -the porch the morning-glories were all out. I pulled off a whole great -vine of 'em and put it around my neck. Then I ran. I wasn't going to go -anywheres or do anything. But I was clean and dressed up, and outdoors -was just as good as anybody else has. - -I went down the road toward the sun. It seemed as if I must be going -toward something else, better than all I knew. I felt as if I was a -person, living like persons live. I wondered why I hadn't done this -every morning. I wondered why everybody didn't do it. I kind of wanted -to be doing it together with somebody. Everybody I knew done things so -separate. I wisht everybody was with me. - -I wanted to sing. So I did--the first thing that come into my head. I -put my head back, so's I could see the two rows of the trees ahead, -almost meeting, and the thick blue between them. And then I sung the -first thing that come into my head, and I sung it to the top of my -voice: - - - "O Mother dear, Jerusalem, - When shall I come to Thee? - When shall my sorrows have an end? - Thy joys when shall I see? - O happy harbor of God's saints! - O sweet and pleasant soil! - In thee no sorrow can be found, - Nor grief nor care nor toil." - - -And when I got to the end of the verse somebody said: - -"I don't believe you can possibly mind if I thank you for that?" - -The man must have been sitting by the road, because he was right there -beside me, standing still, with his hat in his hand. - -I says, "I can't sing. I just done that for fun." - -"That's what was so delightful," he says. And then he says, "Are you -going to the village? May I walk along with you?" - -"No, I ain't going to town," I says. "I ain't going anywheres much. But -you can walk where you want to. The road's free." - -He walked side of me. I looked at him. He was good-looking. He was so -clean--that was the first thing I noticed about him. Clean, and sort of -brown and pink, with nothing more on his face than was on mine, and yet -he looked manly. He was big. He had a wide way with his shoulders, and -he held his head nice. I liked to look at him, so I did look. - -And all at once I says to myself, What did I care so I got some fun out -of it. Other girls was always doing this. Lena Curtsy would have talked -with him in a minute. Maybe I could get him to ask me to go to a show. I -couldn't go, but I thought I'd like to make him ask me. - -"Was you lonesome?" I ask', looking at him. - -He didn't say anything. He just looked at me, smiling a little. I -thought I'd better say a little more. I wanted him to know I wasn't a -stick, but that I was in for fun, like a city girl. - -"You don't look like a chap that'd be lonesome very long," I says. "Not -if you can get acquainted _this_ easy." - -He kept looking at me, and smiling a little. - -"Tell me," he says, "do you live about here?" - -"Me? Right here. I'm the original Maud Muller," I says. - -"And what do you do besides rake hay?" he says. - -I couldn't think what else Maud Muller done. I hadn't read it since -Fifth Reader. So I says: - -"Well, she don't often get a chance to talk with traveling gentlemen." - -"That's good," he says, "but--I wouldn't have thought it." - -I see he meant because I done it so easy and ready, so I give him as -good as he sent. - -"Wouldn't _you_?" I says. "Well, I s'pose you get a chance to flirt with -strange girls every town you strike." - -He looked at me again, not smiling now, but just awfully interested. I -see I was interesting him down to the ground. Lena Curtsy couldn't have -done it better. - -"Flirt," he says over. "What do you mean by 'flirt'?" - -I laughed at him. "You're a pretty one to ask that," I says, "with them -eyes." - -"Oh," he says serious, "then you like my eyes?" - -"I never said so," I gave him. "Do you like mine?" - -"Let me look at them," he said. - -We stopped in the road, and I looked him square in the eye. I can look -anybody in the eye. I looked at him straight, till he laughed and moved -on. He seemed to be thinking about something. - -"I think I like you best when you sing," he said. "Won't you sing -something else?" - -"Sure," I says, and wheeled around in the road, and kind of skipped -backward. And I sung: - - - "Oh, oh, oh, oh! Pull down the blinds! - When they hear the organ play-ing - They won't know what we are say-ing. - Pull down the blinds!" - - -I'd heard it to the motion-picture show the week before. I was thankful -he could see I was up on the nice late tunes. - -"I wonder," says the man, "if you can tell me something. I wonder if you -can tell me what made you pick out this song to sing to me, and what -made you sing that other song when you were alone?" - -All at once the morning come back. Ever since I met him I'd forgot the -morning and the sun, and the way I'd felt when I started out alone. I'd -just been thinking about myself, and about how I could make him think I -was cute and up-to-date. Now it was just as if the country road opened -up again, and there I was on it, opposite the Dew Drop Inn, just being -me. I looked up at him. - -"Honest," I says, "I don't know. I guess it was because I wanted you to -think I was fun." - -He looked at me for a minute, straight and deep. - -"By Jove!" he says, and I didn't know what ailed him. "Have you had -breakfast?" he ask', short. - -"No," I says. - -"You come in here with me and get some," he says, like an order. - -He led the way into the yard of the Dew Drop Inn. There's a grape arbor -there, and some bare hard dirt, and two or three tables. Nobody was -there, only the boy, sweeping the dirt with a broom. We sat down at the -table in the arbor. It was pleasant to be there. A house wren was -singing his head off somewhere near. A woman come out and sloshed water -on the stone at the back door and begun scrubbing. A clock in the bar -struck six. - -Joe Burkey, that keeps the Inn, come out and nodded to me. - -"Joe," I says, "did Keddie Bingy come back here?" - -Joe wiped his hands on the cloth on his arm, and then brushed his -mustache with it, and then wiped off the table with it. - -"I don't know nothin' about K. Bingy," says Joe. "I t'run him out o' my -place last night, neck _and_ crop, for bein' drunk and disorderly. I -ain't seen him since." - -I looked up at Joe's little eyes. They looked like the eyes of the wolf -in the picture in our dining-room. Joe's got a fat chin, and a fat -smile, but his eyes don't match them. - -"You coward and you brute," I says to him, "where did Keddie Bingy _get_ -drunk and disorderly?" - -Joe begun to sputter and to step around in new places. The man I was -with brought his hand down on the table. - -"Never mind that," he says, "what you've to do is bring some breakfast. -What will you have for your breakfast, mademoiselle?" he says to me. - -"Why," I says, "some salt pork and some baking powder biscuit for me, -and some fried potatoes and a piece of some kind of pie. What kind have -you got?" - -"Apple and raisin," says Joe, sulky. But the man I was with he says: - -"Suppose you let me order our breakfast. Will you?" - -"Suit yourself, I'm sure," says I. "I ain't used to the best." - -The man thought a minute. - -"Back there a little way," he says, "I crossed something that looked -like a trout stream. Is it a trout stream?" - -"Sure," says Joe and I together. - -"How long," says the man, "would it take that boy there to bring in a -small catch?" - -"My!" I says, "he can do that quicker'n a cat can lick his eye. Can't -he, Joe?" - -"Very well," says the man. "We will have brook trout for breakfast. Make -a lemon butter for them, please, and use good butter. With that bring us -some toast, very thin, very brown and very hot, with more good butter. -Have you some orange marmalade?" - -"Sure," says Joe, "but it costs thirty cents a jar; I open the whole--" - -"Some orange marmalade," says the man. "And coffee--I wonder what that -good woman there would say to letting me make the coffee?" - -"Her? She'll do whatever I tell her," says Joe. "But we charge extra -when guests got to make their own coffee." - -"And now," says the man, getting through with that, "what can you bring -us while we wait? Some peaches?" - -"The orchard," says Joe, "is rotten wid peaches." - -"Good," says the man. "Now we understand each other. If mademoiselle -will excuse me, we will set the coffee on its way." - -I set and waited, thinking how funny it was for a man to make the -coffee. All Pa ever done in his life to help about the cooking was to -clean the fish. - -I went and played with a kitten, so's not to have to talk to Joe. I -didn't know what I might say to him. When I come back the table was laid -with a nice clean cloth and napkins that were ironed good and dishes -with little flowers on. When the woman come out to the well, I ask' her -if I could pick some phlox for the table. She laughed and said yes, if I -wanted to. So I got some, all pink. I was just bringing it when the man -come back. - -"Stand there, just for a minute," he says. - -I done like he told me, by the door of the arbor. I thought he was going -to say something nice, and I hoped I'd think of something smart and -sassy to say back to him. But all he says was just: - -"Thank you. Now, come and sit down, please." - -We fixed the flowers. Then Joe brought a basket of beautiful peaches, -and we took what we wanted. The man took one, and sat touching it with -the tips of his fingers, and he looked over at me with a nice smile. - -"And now, my child," he says, "tell me your name." - -I always hate to tell folks my name. In the village they've always made -fun of it. - -"What do you want to bother with that for?" I says. "Ain't I good enough -without a tag?" - -He spoke almost sharp. "I want you to tell me your name," he says. - -[Illustration: "I want you to tell me your name," he said] - -So I told him. "Cosma Wakely," I says. - -He looked funny. "Really?" he says. "_Cosma?_" - -"But everybody calls me 'Cossy,'" I says quick. "I know what a funny -name it is. My grandmother named me. She was queer." - -"_Cossy!_" he says over. "Why, Cosma is perfect." - -"You're kiddin' me," I says. "Don't you think I don't know it." - -He didn't say he wasn't. - -"Ain't you going to tell me your name?" I says. "Not that I s'pose -you'll tell me the right one. They never do." - -"My name," he says, "is John Ember." - -"On the square?" I asked him. - -"Yes," he says. He was a funny man. He didn't have a bit of come-back. -He took you just plain. He reminded me of the way I acted with Luke. But -usually I could jolly like the dickens. - -"You travel, I guess," I says. "What do you travel for?" - -He laughed. "If I understand you," he said, "you are asking me what my -line is?" - -I nodded. I'd just put the pit in my mouth, so I couldn't guess -something sassy, like pickles. - -"I have no line," he says. "It's an area." - -"Huh?" I says--on account of the pit. - -"I travel," says he, "for the human race. But they don't know it." - -"Sure," I says, when I had it swallowed, "you got to sell to everybody, -I know that. But what do you sell 'em?" - -He shook his head. - -"I don't sell it," he says. "They won't buy it. I shall always be a -philanthropist. The commodity," says he, "is books." - -"Oh!" I says. "A book agent! I'd have taken you for a regular salesman." - -"I tell you I _don't_ sell 'em," he says. "Nobody will buy. I just write -'em." - -I put down my other peach and looked at him. - -"An author?" I says. "You?" - -"Thank you," says he, "for believing me. Nobody else will. Now don't -let's talk about that. Do you mind telling me something about yourself?" - -"Oh," I says, "I've got a book all made out of wrapping paper. It ain't -wrote yet, it's in the bottom drawer. But I'm going to write one." - -"Good!" he says. "Tell me about that, too." - -I don't know what made me, except the surprise of finding that he was -what he was, instead of a traveling man. But the first thing I knew I -was telling him about me; how I'd stopped school when I was fourteen, -and had worked out for a little while in town; and then when the boys -got the job in the blast furnace, I came home to help Ma. I told him how -the only place I'd ever been, besides the village, was to the city, -twice. Only two things I didn't tell him at first--about what home was -like, and about Luke. But he got them both out of me. Because I wound up -what I was telling him with something I thought was the thing to say. -Lena Curtsy always said it. - -"I've just been living at home for four years now," I said. "I s'pose -it's the place for a girl." - -I remember how calm and slow he was when he answered. - -"Why no," he says. "Your home is about the last place in the world a -girl of your age ought to be." - -"What do you know about my home?" I asked him quick. - -"I don't mean your home," he says. "I mean any home, if it's your -parents' home. If you can't be in school, why aren't you out by this -time doing some useful work of your own?" - -"Work," I says. "I do work. I work like a dog." - -"I don't mean doing your family's work," he said. "I mean doing your own -work. Of course you're not going to tell me you're happy?" - -"No," I says, "I ain't happy. I hate my work. I hate the kind of a home -I live in. It's Bedlam, the whole time. I'm going to get married to get -out of it." - -"So you are going to be married," he says. "What's the man like--do you -mind telling me that?" - -I told him about Luke, just the way he is. While I talked he was eating -his peaches. I'd been through with mine quite a while now, so I noticed -him eat his. He done it kind of with the tips of his fingers. I liked to -watch him. He sort of broke the peach. The juice didn't run down. I -remembered how I must have et mine, and I felt ashamed. - -Before I was all through about Luke, Joe come in with the trout, and -some thin, crispy potatoes on the platter, and the toast and the -marmalade; and Mr. Ember went to see about the coffee. He brought it out -himself, and poured it himself--and it smelled like something I'd never -smelled before. And now, when he begun to eat, I watched him. I broke my -toast, like he done. I used my fork on the trout, like him, and I -noticed he took his spoon out of his cup, and I done that, too, though -I'd got so I could drink from a cup without a handle and hold the spoon -with my finger, like the boys done. I kept tasting the coffee, too, -instead of drinking it off at once, even when it was hot, like I'd -learned the trick of. I didn't know but his way just happened to be his -way, but I wanted to make sure. Anyway, I never smack my lips, and Luke -and the boys do that. - -"Now," he said, "while we enjoy this very excellent breakfast, will you -do me the honor to let me tell you a little something about me?" - -I don't see what honor that would be, and I said so. And then he told me -things. - -I'm sorry that I can't put them down. It was wonderful. It was just like -a story the teacher tells you when you're little and not too old for -stories. It turned out he'd been to Europe and to Asia. He'd done things -that I never knew there was such things. But he didn't talk about him, -he just talked about the things and the places. I forgot to eat. It -seemed so funny that I, Cossy Wakely, should be listening to somebody -that had done them things. He said something about a volcano. - -"A volcano!" I says. "Do they have them _now_? I thought that was only -when the geography was." - -"But the geography _is_, you know," he says. "It is now." - -"Did that big flat book all mean now?" I says. "I thought it meant long -ago. I had a picture of the Ark and the flood and the Temple, and when -the stars fell--" - -"Oh, the fools!" he says to himself; but I didn't know who he meant, and -I was pretty sure he must mean me. - -All the while we were having breakfast, he talked with me. When it was -over, and he'd paid the bill--I tried my best to see how much it was, so -as to tell Lena Curtsy, but I couldn't--he turned around to me and he -says: - -"The grass is not wet this morning. It's high summer. Will you walk with -me up to the top of that hill over there in the field? I want to show -you the whole world." - -"Sure," I says. "But you can't see much past Twiney's pasture from that -little runt of a hill." - -We climbed the fence. He put his hand on a post and vaulted the wire as -good as the boys could have done. When he turned to help me, I was just -doing the same thing. Then it come over me that maybe an author wouldn't -think that was ladylike. - -"I always do them that way," I says, kind of to explain. - -"Is there any other way?" says he. - -"No!" says I, and we both laughed. It was nice to laugh with him, and it -was the first time we'd done it together. - -The field was soft and shiny. There was pretty cobwebs. Everything -looked new and glossy. - -"Great guns!" I says. "Ain't it nice out here?" - -"That's exactly what I've been thinking," says he. - -We went along still for a little ways. It come to me that maybe, if I -could only say some of the things that moved around on the outside of my -head, he might like them. But I couldn't get them together enough. - -"It makes you want to think nice thoughts," I says, by and by. - -"Doesn't it?" he says, with his quick, straight look. "And when it does, -then you do." - -"I don't know enough," I says. "I wisht I did." - -I'll never, never forget when we come to the top of the little hill. He -stood there with nothing but the sky, blue as fury, behind him. - -"Now look," he says. "There's New York, over there." - -"You can't see New York from here!" I says. "Not with no specs that was -ever invented." - -He went right on. "Down there," he says, "are St. Louis and Cincinnati -and New Orleans. Across there is Chicago. And away on there are two days -of desert--two days, by express train!--and then mountains and a green -coast, and San Francisco and the Pacific. And then all the things we -talked about this morning: Japan and India and the Alps and London and -Rome and the Nile." - -I wondered what on earth he was driving at. - -"Which do you want to do," says he, "go there, and try to find these -places? You won't find them, you know. But at least, you'll know they're -in the world. Or live down there in a little farm-house like that one -and slave for Luke?" - -"But I can't even try to find them places," I says. "How could I?" - -"Maybe not," he says. "Maybe not. I don't say you could. All I mean is -this, Why not think of your life as if you have really been born, and -not as if you were waiting to be born?" - -"Oh," I says, "don't you s'pose I've thought of that? But I can't get -away." - -"Yes, you can," he says, looking at me, earnest. "Yes, you can. If you -just say the word." - -I was as tall as he was, and I looked right at him, with all the -strength I had. - -"Do you think," I says, "that because I'm from the country I ain't on to -all such talk as that? Do you think I don't know what them kind of -hold-outs means? We ain't such fools as you think we are, not since -Hattie Duffy thought she was going to Paris, and ended in the bottom of -a pond. They's only one way any of us ever gets to see any of them -things, and don't you think we're fooled unless we want to be. No, sir. -We ain't that fresh." - -He scared me the way he whirled round at me. - -"You miserable little creature!" he said. "What are you talking about?" - -"Well," I says, "don't you ever think I--" - -Then he done a funny thing. He drew a deep breath, and took his hat off -and looked up at the sky and off over the fields. - -"After all," he said, "thank God this is the way you are beginning to -take it! When a country girl can protect herself like that, it is -growing safe for her to be born. Listen to me, child," he says. - -He had me puzzled for fair by then. I just listened. - -"Just now," he says, "I called you a miserable little creature. That was -because you quite naturally mistook me for one of the wretched hunters -whom women have been trying to evade since the beginning. Well, I was -wrong to call you that. Instead, I applaud your magnificent ability to -take care of yourself. I applaud even more in the incident--but I won't -bother you with that." - -I kept trying to see what he meant. - -"Now you must," he said, "try to understand me. What I meant to say to -you was that with the whole world to choose from, you are, in my -opinion, quite wrong to settle down here to your farm and your Luke and -the drudgery you say you loathe, without ever giving yourself a chance -to choose at all. Perhaps you would come back and settle here because -you wanted to.... I hope you would do that, under somewhat different -conditions. But don't settle here because you're trapped and can't get -out." - -"But I can't get out--" I was beginning, but he went on: - -"I know perfectly well that a great part of the world would think that I -ought not to be talking to you like that. They would say that you are -'safe' here. That you and Luke would have a quiet, contented life. But I -care nothing at all for such safety. I think that unreasonable -contentment leads to various kinds of damnation. If you were an ordinary -girl I should not be talking to you like this. I should not have the -courage--yet; not while life treats women as it treats them now. But in -spite of your vulgarity, you are a remarkable woman." - -"In spite of _what_?" I says. - -"I mean it," he says, "and you must let me tell you, because you seem to -be, in all but one thing, a fine straightforward creature. But in the -way you treat men, you _are_ vulgar, you know. Not hopelessly, just -deplorably. Now tell me the truth. Why did you pretend to flirt with me? -For that isn't your natural manner. You put it on. Why did you do that?" - -I could tell him that well enough. - -"Why," I says, "I guess it was the same as the singing. I wanted you to -know I wasn't a stick. I wanted you to think I was lively and fun. It's -the way the girls do. I can't do it as good as they do, I know that." - -"Promise me," he says, "that if ever you do get out, you'll be the fine -and straightforward one--not the other one." - -"I shan't get out," I says. "I can't get out." - -"'I can't get out,'" he says over. "'I can't get out.' It's a great -mistake. If you feel it in you to get out, then you'll get out. That's -the answer." - -"I do," I says. "I always have. I wake up in the mornings...." - -I'll never know what it was that come over me. But all of a sudden, the -me that laid awake nights and thought, and the me that had come out in -the sun that morning was the only me I had, and it could talk. - -"Oh," I says, "don't you think I'm the way I seemed back there on the -road. I'm different; but I'm the only one that knows that. I like nice -things. I'd like to act nice. I'd like to be the way I could be. But -there ain't enough of me to be that way. And I don't know what to do." - -He took both my hands. - -"And I don't know what you're to do," he said. "That is the part you -must find for yourself. It's like dying--yet a while, till they get us -going." - -We stood still for a minute. And then I saw what I hadn't seen -before--what a grand face he had. He wasn't like the handsome men on -calendars or on cigar boxes, or on the signs. He was like somebody else -I hadn't ever seen before. His face wasn't young at all, but it looked -glad, and that made it seem young. - -"I wish you wouldn't ever go way," I says. - -"I ought to be miles from here at this moment," he says. "Now see here -... I want to give you these." - -He took two cards out of his pocket, and wrote on them. - -"This one is mine," he says. "If you do come to the city, you are surely -to let me know that you are there. And if you take this other card to -this address here, this gentleman may be able to give you work. Now -good-by. I'm going to cut through the meadow, and I suppose you'll be -going back." - -He put out his hand. - -"Don't go," I says. "Don't go. I shan't ever find anybody to talk to -again." - -"That's part of your job, you know," he says. "Remember you _have_ a -job. Good-by, child." - -He went off down the slope. At the foot of it he stopped. - -"Cosma!" he shouts, "don't ever let them call you anything else, you -know!" - -"I won't," I says. "Honest, I won't, Mr. Ember." - -I watched him just as far as I could see him. On the road he turned and -waved his hand. When he was out of sight I started to go back home. But -when I see things again, I'll never forget the lonesomeness. Things was -like a sucked-out sack. I laid down in the grass--I haven't cried since -the last time Pa whipped me, six years ago, but I thought I was going to -cry now. Then I happened to think that was the way I'd have done before -I met him; but it wasn't the way I must do now. Instead, I got up on to -my feet and I started for home on the run. It was like something was -starting somewheres, and I _had_ to hurry. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Mother was scrubbing the well-house. - -"Cossy Wakely," she says, "where you been?" - -"Walking," I says. - -"Walking!" says she; "with all I got to do. I should think you'd be -ashamed of yourself. My land, what you got on your best clothes for?" - -"Mother," I says, "you call me 'Cosma' after this, will you?" - -She stared at me. "Such airs," she says. "And callin' me 'Mother.' Who -you been with? What you rigged out like that for?" - -"I didn't dress up for anybody," I says, "only because I wanted to." - -"Such a young one as you've turned out," says she. "What's to become of -you I don't know. Wait till your Pa comes in--I'll tell him." - -"Mother," I says, "I'm twenty years old. You call me 'Cosma,' and let -me call you 'Mother.' And don't feel you have to scold me all the time." - -"I'll quit scolding you fast enough," she says, "when you quit deserving -it. Go and get out of them togs, the dishes are waiting for you." - -I went in the house. Mis' Bingy was not there, up-stairs or down. I went -back to the door and asked about her. - -"Why, she's gone home," says Mother. "You didn't s'pose she was going to -live here, did you?" - -"Home?" I says. "Where that man is?" - -"We can't all pick out our homes," she says, scrubbing the boards. - -Pa heard her. He was just coming in from the barn with the swill buckets -to fill. - -"That's you," he says, "finding fault with the hands that feeds you. -Where'd you be, I'd like to know, if it wasn't for this home and me? In -the poorhouse." - -Mother straightened up on her knees by the well. - -"Mean to say I don't pay my keep?" she says. - -For a minute she seemed young and somebody, like when she was asleep. - -"Not when you dish up such pickings as you done this morning," says Pa. - -She screamed out something at him, and I ran across the yard toward Mis' -Bingy's. They were going on so hard they forgot about me. - -The grove was still. I wished _he_ could have seen it. As soon as I got -in it, I forgot about home, and the time before come back on me, like -some of me singing. That was it--some of me singing. But I see right off -the grove was different. It was almost as if he _had_ been in it, and -had showed me things about it. I begun looking out at it the way I -thought he'd be looking at it. There seemed to be more of the grove than -I thought there was. Then I thought how he'd never be there in it, and -how I'd prob'ly never see him again, and something in me hurt, and I -didn't want to go on. What was the use?... What was the use?... What was -the use?... - -Mis' Bingy's house lay all still in the sun. The sunflowers and -hollyhocks by the back door and the chickens picking around looked all -peaceful and like home. I thought Mr. Bingy must be sleeping off his -drunk, and her keeping quiet not to disturb him. - -The kitchen door was standing open and I stepped up on the porch. And -then I heard a terrible cry, from right there in the room. - -"Go back--back, Cossy!" Mis' Bingy said. "He'll kill you!" - -All in an instant I took it in. She was sitting crouched on the bed, -shielding the baby with a pillow. And he set close beside the door, -sharpening his hatchet. - -He jumped up when he see me. I remember his red eyes and his teeth, and -his thin whiskers that showed his chin through. Then he sprang forward, -right toward me and on to me, with his hatchet in his hand. - -I donno how I done it. For no reason, I guess, only that I'm big and -strong and he was little and pindling. I know I never stopped to think -or decide nothing. I dodged his hatchet and I jumped at him. I threw my -whole strength at him, with my hands on his face and his throat. He went -down like a log, because I was so much bigger and so strong. But that -wouldn't have saved us, only that, as he fell, he hit his head on the -sharp corner of the cook stove. He rolled over on his back, and the -hatchet flew out on the zinc. - -"You killed him!" Mis' Bingy says. She sat up, but she didn't go to him. - -"We ain't no time to think of that," I says. "Get your things and come." - -She didn't ask anything. She took the baby and run right and got a -bundle of things she'd got ready. I see then that she had on her best -black dress, and the baby was all dressed clean and embroidered. I -picked up the hatchet, and we went out the door, and shut it behind us. -She never looked back, even when we got to the door; and I noticed that, -because it wasn't like Mis' Bingy, that's soft and frightened. - -"I don't mind what he done to me," she said, "but just now he took the -baby--and touched her hand--to the hot griddle." - -She showed me. - -"I hope he's dead," I said. - -"Where shall I go?" she says. "My God, where shall I go?" - -"Ain't you no folks?" I asked her. - -"Not near enough so's I've got the fare," she says. "Anyhow, I don't -want to come on to them." - -We was in the grove at the time. I donno as it would have come to me so -quick if we hadn't been there. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "let's us go to the city together, you and me. And -find a job." - -I thought she'd draw back. But she just stopped still in the path and -looked at me round the baby's head. - -"You couldn't do that, could you?" she says. - -"Yes," I says. "I didn't know it before, but I know it now. I could do -that." - -She kep' on looking at me, with something coming in her face. - -"You couldn't go to-day, could you?" she says. - -I hadn't thought of to-day, but the thing was on me then. - -"Why not to-day as good as any day?" I says. - -"Your Ma--" she says. - -"This is different," I says. "This is for me to do." - -We come to the edge of the grove, and across the open lot I could see -Mother. She was spreading out her scrubbing cloth on the grass to dry. I -went up to her, and I wasn't scared nor I didn't dread anything because -I was so sure. - -"Mother," I says, "Mis' Bingy and I are going up to the city together to -get some work. And we're goin' to-day. But first I've got to go and find -somebody. I donno but I've killed Mr. Bingy." - -I don't remember all the things she said. All of a sudden, my head was -full of other things that stood out sharp, and I couldn't take in what -was going on all around, not with what I had to think about. Mis' Bingy -sat down by the well-house and went to nursing the baby, and Mother -stood up before her asking her things. I left 'em so, and ran down the -road to the Inn. That was the nearest place I could get anybody. - -It was about ten o'clock in the morning by that time. All this had -happened to me before it was time to get the potatoes ready for dinner. -I remember thinking that as I run. There was the Inn--and Joe was out -wiping off the tables in the yard, with the same dirty cloth, and -straightening up the chairs. - -"Joe," I says, "I ain't sure, but I think I've hurt Mr. Bingy pretty -bad. Is there somebody can go up to their house and see?" - -Joe stared, his thick, red, open lips and his red tongue looking more -surprised than his little wolf eyes. - -"What?" he says. - -When I'd made him know, he got two men from the field and they run up -the road toward Bingy's. On the Inn window-sill was the same kitten I'd -played with while I was waiting for the coffee. I went and got it and -sat down at the table where we'd been. It seemed a day since I was -there. I seemed like somebody else. For the first time I wondered what -would be if Keddie Bingy was dead. But it wasn't the being arrested or -stood up in the court room or locked in jail that I thought of, and it -wasn't Keddie at all. All I kept thinking was: - -"If Keddie's dead, I won't never see _him_ again." - -I sat there going over that, and holding the kitten. It was a nice -little kitten that looked up in my face more helpless than anything but -a baby, or a bird, or a puppy. I felt kind of like some such helpless -things. The world wasn't like what I thought it was. More things -happened to you than I ever knew could happen. I always thought they -happened just to other folks. The tables and the bare, swept dirt didn't -look as if anything was happening anywheres near them, and yet down the -road maybe was a dead man that I'd killed. And a mile and more away by -now _he_ was, and a little bit ago he'd been here, and the me that set -there with him had been somebody else. And the me that had been awake -before daybreak that morning probably wouldn't ever be me at all, any -more. Everything was different forever. I saw something on the ground, -down by the arbor. It was the pink phlox I had picked. They threw it -away when they wanted to wash the glass. It seemed so helpless, laying -there without any water. I went and got it and put it on my dress. - -Pretty soon I heard them coming back, talking. Joe and one of the men -come in sight, and Joe sung out: - -"It's all right. He's groaning. Ben's gone for a doctor. What happened?" - -I told 'em; but I wanted to get away. - -"Well, shave my bones," Joe says, "if you ain't the worst I ever see. -Why didn't you leave the woman knock down her own man?" - -"Why didn't you leave her get him drunk?" I says. "If I'd have killed -him, it'd been you that murdered him, Joe." - -"Now, look here," says Joe, "I'm a-carrying on an honest business. If a -man goes for to make a fool of himself, is that my lookout, or ain't -it? Who do you think lets me keep this business, anyway? It's the U. S. -Gover'ment, that's who it is. You better be careful what you sling at -this business." - -"Then it's the Gover'ment that's a big fool, instead of you and Keddie," -I says, and started for home. I remember Joe shouted out something; but -all I was thinking was that the day before I'd of thought it was wicked -to say what I'd just said, and now I didn't; and I wondered why. - -There wasn't a minute to lose now, because if Keddie was groaning he'd -be up and out again and looking for both of us. Mother and Mis' Bingy -and the baby was still out in the yard by the well-house, and Father was -just starting down the road after me. - -It's funny, but what, just the day before, would have been a thing so -big I wouldn't have thought of doing it, chiefly on account of the row -it'd make, was now just easy and natural. They must have said things, I -remember how loud their voices were and how I wished they wouldn't. And -I remember them saying over and over the same thing: - -"You don't need to go. You don't _need_ to go. Ain't you always had a -roof over you and enough to eat? A girl had ought to be thankful for a -good home." - -But I went and got my things ready and got myself dressed. I wanted to -tell them about the feeling I had that I _had_ to go, but I couldn't -tell about that, now that I was going, any more than I could tell when I -thought I mustn't go. - -I did say something to Mother when she come and stood in the bedroom -door and told me I was an ungrateful girl. - -"Ungrateful for what?" I says. - -"For me bringing you up and working my head off for you," she says, "and -your Pa the same." - -"But, Mother," I says, "that was your job to do. And me--I ain't found -my job--yet." - -"Your job is to do as we tell you to," says Mother. "The idea!" - -I tried, just that once, to make her see. - -"Mother," I says, "I'm separate. I'm somebody else. I'm old enough to -get a-hold of some life like you've had, and some work I want to do. And -I can't do it if I stay here. I'm _separate_--don't you see that?" - -Then it come over me, dim, how surprised she must feel, after all, to -have to think that, that I was separate, instead of her and hers. I went -over toward her--I wanted to tell her so. But she says: - -"I don't know what you're coming to. And I'm glad I don't. When I'm dead -and gone, you'll think of this." - -And then I couldn't say what I'd tried to say. But I thought what she -said was true, that I would think about it some day, and be sorry. If it -hadn't been for Mis' Bingy, I s'pose I'd have given it up, even then. -It's hard to make a thing that's been so for a long time stop being so. -But Mis' Bingy needed me, and I was sorry for her; and I liked the -feeling. - -On the stairs Mother thought of something else. - -"What about Luke?" she says. - -I hadn't thought of Luke. - -"He'd ought to be the one to set his foot down," says Mother, "seeing we -can't do anything with you." - -Set his foot down--Luke! Why? Because he'd tell me he loved me and I -said I'd marry him! I went to the pail for a drink of water, and I stood -there and laughed. Luke setting his foot down on me because I said he -might! - -"She'll come back when she's hungry," says Father. "Don't carry on so, -Mate." - -Mate was Mother's name. I hadn't heard Father call her that many times. -It come to me that my going away was something that brought them nearer -together for a minute. And _Mate_! It meant something, something that -she was. She _was_ Father's mate. They'd met once for the first time. -They'd wanted their life to be nice. I ran up to them and kissed them -both. And then for the first time in my life I saw Mother's lip tremble. - -"I'll do up your clean underclothes," she says, "and send 'em after you. -You tell me where." - -"Mother, Mother!" I says, and took hold of her. If it hadn't been for -Mis' Bingy I'd have given up going then and there, and married Luke -whenever he said so. - -It was Mis' Bingy's scared face that give me courage to go, and it was -her face that kept my mind off myself all the way to the depot. I -thought she was going to faint away when we went by the lane that led up -to their house. But we never heard anything or saw anybody. We were -going to the depot, and just set there until the first train come along -for the city. And all the while we did set there, Mis' Bingy got paler -and paler every time the door opened, or somebody shouted out on the -platform. She wanted to take the first train that come in and get away -anywheres, even if it took us out of our way. But I got her to wait the -half hour till the city train come along; and as the time went by she -begun to be less willing to go at all. - -"Cossy," she says, when we heard the engine whistle, "I've been wrong. -I'm being a bad wife. I'm going back." - -"What kind of a wife you're being," I says, "that's got nothing to do -with it. It's _her_." - -She looked down at the baby. The baby had on her little best cloak, and -a bonnet that the ruffle come down over her eyes. She wasn't a pretty -baby, her face was spotted and she made a crooked mouth when she cried. -But she was soft and helpless, and I didn't mind her being homely. - -"I'm taking her away from a father's care," says Mis' Bingy, beginning -to cry. - -It seemed to me wicked the way she was stuffed full of words that didn't -mean anything, like "bad wife" and "father's care." I didn't say -anything, though. The baby's hand lay spread out on her cloak, with the -burned part done up in a rag and some soda, the way Mother'd fixed it. I -just picked up the little hand, and looked up at Mis' Bingy. - -When the train come in, she went out and got on to it, without another -word. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -It was past one o'clock when we got to the city, and we hadn't had -anything to eat. We found a lunch place near the depot, and then I spent -a penny for a paper, and we set there in the restaurant and tried to -find where to go. It wasn't much of any fun, getting to the city, not -the way you'd think it would be, because Mis' Bingy and I didn't know -where we were going. - -The Furnished Room page all sounded pleasant, but when we asked the -restaurant keeper where the cheap ones were, most of them was quite far -to walk. Finally we picked out some near each other and started out to -find them. I carried my valise and Mis' Bingy's, and she had the baby. -It was a hot day, with a feel of thunder in the air. - -We walked for two hours, because neither of us thought we'd ought to -begin by spending car-fare. Mis' Bingy had sixteen dollars that she'd -saved, off and on, for two years. I had five dollars. So neither of us -was worried very much about money; but we wanted to save all we could. -We went to five or six places that were nice, but they cost too much; -and to two that we could have taken, only the lady said she didn't want -a baby in the house. - -"If they're born in your house, do you turn 'em out?" I says to one of -'em. - -Pretty soon we found a little grassy place with trees, and big buildings -around it, and we went in that and sat down on the grass. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "was you ever in the city before?" - -"Sure I was," she says, proud, "twelve years ago. We come to his uncle's -funeral. But he didn't leave him anything." - -"I was here once," I says, "when I was 'leven. To have my eyes done to. -And once when I was eighteen, when Mother got her teeth. Did you ever go -to the theater here?" I ask' her. - -"No," says she. - -"Did you ever see in a jewelry store here?" - -"No," says she. - -"Or in stores with low-neck dresses and light colors?" - -"No," says she. - -"Nor the Zoo with the animals, nor a store where they sell just flowers, -nor the band?" I says. - -"No," says she. "But he used to tell me, when he come up sometimes," she -tacks on. - -The sun kept coming out and going under. The trees moved pleasant and -folks went hurrying by. It kind of come over me: - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "you ain't ever had anything in your whole life, -and neither have I. And now it's the city!" - -But she put her head down on the baby and begun to cry. - -"I don't know what's going to become of us," she says. "It's awful." - -I jumped up and stood on the grass and looked off down the street toward -the city. - -"And I don't know what's going to become of us!" I says. "Ain't it -grand?" - -I laughed, and whirled on my toe. A woman was going along the walk that -cut through the grassy place where we was. She looked nice, like -pictures of women. - -"Excuse me," I says to her, "can you tell us somebody that has a room to -rent, a cheap room?" - -"I'm sorry," she says, and bent her head and went on. - -It give me a little cold feeling. It come to me that maybe everything -wasn't the way it looked. - -"Come on, Mis' Bingy," I says, "it's getting late. We don't want to -sleep out here to-night." - -The room that we finally found was at the back and up two stairways, and -it cost fifty cents more than we thought we'd pay, but we took it. - -And now the singing in me that I'd been keeping down while there was -things to do, come up through, the little funny singing that was all -over me. I took out the two cards--that I'd got only that morning, that -seemed, lifetimes back--and laid one of 'em on the bureau. It was Mr. -Ember's card. The other one I wouldn't look up till to-morrow when I -started out to find my work. But this one was his card, that he'd told -me would find him. He'd been on his way back to the city that morning. -By now he would be here. And I wasn't going to wait. - -I put on my other shoes and a clean waist, and I told Mis' Bingy that -I'd be back in a little while. She was going to try to go to sleep. I -heard her lock the door before I got to the stairs, and I knew that -she'd be afraid all the time that Keddie was going to find her. - -Out on the street I asked how to get to the address on the card. It was -on the far edge of the town: the policeman begun to tell me which car to -take. - -"I'll walk," I says. - -"It'll take you an hour," says he. - -"It's my hour," says I, and I started. But it come to me that that -wasn't the way Mr. Ember would have thought anybody ought to answer, -and I felt kind of sick. I thought, How was I going to remember to do -all the ways I knew he'd want? - -It took me more than an hour to walk it. It was 'most six o'clock when I -finally turned in the little street, just a block long, where he lived. -My heart begun to beat, while I walked along slow, looking at the -numbers. It come to me that maybe he wouldn't be glad to see me. - -Sixteen ... eighteen ... twenty-two ... twenty-four, and that was his. -It had a high brick fence--I could just see the roof over it--and a -little picket gate standing open. I went along a short walk with green -and yellow bushes on each side to a low porch with a door, that was -standing open, too. And on the door was two cards: "Mr. Arthur Gordon" -was on one. The other was his. Below them it said: "Visitors Enter." - -So I went in, the way it said, through a low, bare, dim hall, and -through a door on the right to a little room; and beyond was a big -room, with a queer, sloping window all over the ceiling. The room had -pictures on the walls. And it was full of folks. - -I stood by the door looking for him. It didn't seem possible that we -could meet here, now, when I'd left him such a little while ago, there -in Twiney's pasture. There was a good many different kinds of men, most -of them smiling. They were looking at the pictures, or drinking from -cups round a white table. I looked at them first, one after another; but -none of them was him. - -Then I begun noticing the women. They looked like the kind I'd seen in -the _Weekly_, Saturdays, when there was pictures. They were all -light-colored, with dresses that you couldn't tell how they were made, -and hair that you couldn't remember how it was done up, and soft voices -that went up and down, different from any I'd ever heard. I could hear -what some of them near me were saying, but there was none of it that I -could understand, nor what it was about, nor what the names meant. And -all of a sudden I see through it: These folks must all have done the -things he had done--Asia, Europe, volcanoes--and they could talk about -it his way. These were the kind of people he was used to. - -Right near me was a woman in a dress that looked like I've seen the -clouds look like, all showing through pink, with a hat like I'd never -seen except once in a window when I was waiting for Mother and her -teeth. I remember just what the woman said--I stood saying it over, like -when I was learning a piece for elocution class, home. She says: - -"I beg your pardon? But I fancy Mr. Ember would call that effect far -from artificial...." - -They walked by me. I stood there, saying over and over what she had just -said about Mr. Ember. I didn't know what it meant, but it made me -remember something. It made me remember the way I'd talked to him that -morning, and the song I'd sung him, running backward on the road and -trying to flirt with him; and that about his not giving me his right -name. - -"Pardon me," somebody near me said, "I wonder if I may serve you in any -way?" - -I didn't half see the man who spoke to me. I just shook my head, and -slipped out the door and out of the little yard. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -It was that night that I begun this book. I'd brought in a loaf of bread -and a little warming pan and a can of baked beans. We het the beans over -the gas-jet and made a good supper--the water in the wash pitcher was -all right to drink. Then Mis' Bingy went to bed with the baby, and I got -out the paper I'd fixed, and I started. It seemed as though I must. I -had the feeling that I wanted to get out from the place I was in. Home, -when I felt like that, I used to sweep the parlor or shampoo my hair, or -try to get Father to leave me earn some money, helping him. Once I took -my egg money and started lessons on our organ. But such things don't get -you anywheres. And it seemed as though the book would help. - -I didn't know anything to write about, only just me. It come to me that -I ought to tell about me. But nothing worth writing had ever happened -to me till just that morning. So I started in, and wrote near all -night--down to the part where we got to the city. The gas smelled bad. I -always remember that night. Before I knew it, it was getting light in -the window. Then I put up the paper and crawled over back of Mis' Bingy -and the baby, and went to sleep. And when I went to sleep, and when I -woke up in the morning, the same thing was in my head right along--that -mebbe I could get to be enough different so's I could see him again, -some day. Because I knew I wasn't never going to let him see me again -while I was the way I was now. But I wondered how to get different. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says next morning, "how do folks get different?" - -"Hard work and trouble, mostly," she says. - -"I don't mean backward," I says. "I mean frontward." - -She shook her head. "I donno," she says. "I used to think about that, -some." - -We had the rest of the beans and bread, and then I started out. After -she got the baby dressed, Mis' Bingy was going out to set in the green -place where we'd been yesterday. - -"I could work," she says, "if it wasn't for the baby. She's lots of -work, too. But that don't earn us nothing." - -She was always making lace, and she'd brought along a lot she made--the -bottom drawer of the washstand was full of it. Making that, and tending -the baby, kep' her occupied; but, as she said, it didn't earn us -anything. - -I had the other card that Mr. Ember had given me, and that morning I -started out to find the man. John Carney, the name was, and it was a -long ways to walk. It was in a big office building. And when I got to -the right door, a smart young guy behind a fence says, What did I want -to see Mr. Carney about, and wouldn't one of the men in the office do? I -just give him Mr. Ember's card to take in, and when he'd gone I felt -glad; because if it had been the day before, when I hadn't seen that -room full of folks nor heard the woman in the pinkish dress speak like -she done, I bet I'd of said to that young guy: "You go and chase -yourself to the pasture and quit your fresh lip." Just like Lena Curtsy -would have said. - -I had to wait quite a while till they sent for me. And when I went in -the office, long and like a parlor in a picture, I stood in front of a -big gray man whose shoulders were the principal part. And there was a -little young man there, sitting loose in a big easy chair, looking at a -newspaper. I noticed the little young man particular, because he didn't -look like anything, and he acted like so much. He didn't belong in the -office. He just happened. - -"What can I do for you, madam?" says the big gray man, with Mr. Ember's -card in his hand. "Mr. Carney is absent in Europe." - -"Oh," I says, "then I don't know. Mr. Ember thought Mr. Carney'd maybe -help me to get a job." - -The little young man spoke up. - -"I expect you'll meet up with a good deal of that kind of thing, Bliss," -he says, glancing up from his newspaper and glancing down again. -"Everybody sends 'em to my uncle. He--makes it a point to know of -things. He's a regular employment agency, d'y'see, for the jobless -friends of his friends. I--er--shouldn't let it bother me." - -The big gray man was real nice and regretful. - -"I'm genuinely sorry," he said. "I really am. I happen to know Ember a -little--I'd be glad to oblige him. But this--we don't need a thing here. -I'm sorry Mr. Carney is away. It's unfortunate, but he _is_ away, for -some months." - -He said a few more things polite, and he took down my name and address -and said if anything _should_ turn up.... And I happened to think of -something. If we had to wait very long, it might bother some about the -rent. - -"You don't think it would be very long, do you?" I says. "On account of -Mis' Bingy and my rent." - -"I wish I could promise something more," says the big gray man, looking -back on his desk papers. "I'm sorry. Good morning." - -I didn't think till afterward that he'd never even troubled to ask me -what I could do. - -Then the little young man that had been setting loose in his chair, sat -up loose, and spoke loose, too. - -"I say," he said, "if she's a friend of Ember's, I might give her a card -to the factory." - -"I shouldn't trouble if I were you, Arthur," says the big gray man, -sharp; which I didn't think was very nice of him. - -But the little young man, tipping his cigar so's the smoke would keep -out of his eyes, and squinting back from it, took out a card and -scrawled on it and tossed it across the table toward me. - -"You might try that," he says. And shook himself, loose again, and -strolled out the door. He walked loose, too. - -I thanked him and put the card away, and went down in the elevator. It -was the same elevator, it turned out, that the little young man had -taken, but of course he didn't notice me. When I got down I asked the -man at the door how to get to the address of the factory that was -written on the card. He said it was about two miles, and told me with -his thumb which way. While I was trying to make out which way he meant, -I stood for a minute in the street doorway. And there was the little -young man again. - -"Do you know how to get to the factory?" he asked. - -"Yes. On my two feet," I says back, and started. - -"You don't mean to say you're going to walk all that way?" he says, -following me a step or two. - -"No," I says, "I don't mean to say it, as I know of." - -"Look here," he says, "my car is here at the side door. I'm on my way -over to the factory now. Can't I give you a lift?" - -I thought for a minute. I was awful tired. If I walked all that way and -then home, I'd have to spend ten cents for lunch that would be enough -for Mis' Bingy and me both at night. The little young man was a friend -of Mr. Carney's, that was a friend of Mr. Ember's.... - -"We'll be there in ten minutes," he says. - -"Much obliged," I says, and went with him. - -He had a nice little shiny two-seated car that he engineered himself. -When we was headed down the avenue he says: - -"My name is Arthur Carney. I'm Mr. Carney's nephew." - -I remembered about the awful things I'd said to Mr. Ember, so I answered -just as nice as I knew how: "I'm Cosma Wakely." - -"Do you live here in town?" he ask' me. - -"No," I says. "I just come from Katytown last night. Yes, I do live here -now--I forgot." - -"Really," he says. - -The car went so quick and smooth and even I could have sung because I -was in it. I'd never been in an automobile before. - -"Oh," I says, "ain't this just grand?" - -He looked over at me--he had a real white face and gold glasses and not -much of any hair showed. His clothes and his gloves was like new, and -some white cuffs peeked out. - -"I think so," he says. "I'm glad you do." - -"I meant the car," I says; and then I was afraid I'd made another -mistake, like I had with Mr. Ember, and that the car was what the little -young man had meant, too. - -But he was looking at me and laughing. - -"You're awfully sure what you mean, aren't you?" he says. "Are you -always that sure?" - -I kept thinking that he was Mr. Carney's nephew, and that Mr. Carney was -Mr. Ember's friend. I wanted to answer him like I knew Mr. Ember would -like. I'd answered him saucy when he first spoke to me, but that was -part because I was embarrassed. So I didn't say anything at all. I -didn't care whether he thought I was a country girl and a stick or not. -I wanted to act nice. - -"What made you run away from me yesterday?" he says. - -"Yesterday?" I ask' him. - -"At Gordon's studio," he says. "You don't mean to say you've forgotten -that I spoke to you when you stood in the doorway? And you ran away." - -I ask' him, before I meant to, "Was Mr. Ember there?" - -"Ember? No," he says; "he's never here. He works off in God-forsaken -spots. How are you going to like the city?" - -I looked down the shiny crowded street. All to once I saw it different. -Before that I'd been thinking he might be in every crowd. - -"It's awful lonesome here," I says. - -The policeman at the corner held up his hand, and we had to sit still -and wait. The little young man leaned on the wheel. - -"I hope you'll let me keep you from getting too lonesome," he says. - -I turned round on him. In another minute I'd have given him the thing I -always tried to say back, smart and quick. "When I'm that lonesome, I'll -go traveling back home again," was what come in my head. Instead of -that, all at once I wondered what the woman in the pinkish dress and hat -in the studio would have said. And I said what she did say: - -"I beg your pardon?" - -He laughed. "All right," he said, and started the car. "I do go pretty -fast. But, by jove, you know, you bowl a fellow over." - -I didn't say anything. I was thinking. Here was a man that had been with -all those people yesterday, the people that were the way I wanted to be. -He had always been with them. He had money, I thought--his clothes and -his cuffs, and then the car, looked as if he had. Probably he knew the -same things, almost, that Mr. Ember knew. He ought to be able to help -me. - -"Mr. Carney," I says, "have you been to see Europe, and Asia--and -volcanoes?" - -"Have I _what_?" says he. - -"Oh," I says, "traveled. Well, I guess you _have_ seen all the things -and places there are to see, haven't you?" - -"I've done a turn or two," he says. "Why? Are you interested in travel?" - -"Oh, yes," I says; "but--of course--" - -"Do you want to travel?" he says, turning to look at me. - -"Why," I says; "but I mean--" - -He stopped the car for the policeman at the next corner. - -"Because," he says, leaning on the wheel again, "if you want to travel, -you shall travel." - -It was almost what Mr. Ember had said. I was so thankful that now I knew -enough to answer nice, and not the awful way I had done to Mr. Ember. - -"I hope so," I says. "I do want to." - -I thought he was waiting for me to look round at him; but there was a -little dog in the automobile next to us, and I was watching that. - -"When?" he says. "When?" - -I says, "The gentleman blew his whistle." - -He laughed, and started the car, and I went on with what I'd been -wanting to say. - -"I was thinking," I says, "you've probably seen a whole lots of folks, -like I mean about. Well, I wanted to ask you: How do folks get -different? I mean, when they've started in being like me?" - -"What do you mean, child?" he says. - -"Get different," I says. "Get like those women there yesterday." - -"There wasn't a woman in the room yesterday who could hold a candle to -you, and you know it," he says. "Ever since yesterday I've been cursing -myself that I didn't follow you. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw -you come into that office this morning. Why in the world would you want -to be different?" - -I wanted to say, "Because I want something more than that in mine!" But -I didn't. I spoke just regular. - -"No," I says, "I mean true. I mean, learn things. Not school things, but -how to do. How do you start out? I mean, if it's me?" - -He kept looking at me, in between guiding his car. - -"So that's it!" he says. "And you want me to tell you?" - -"Yes!" I says. "More than anything else." He turned his car into a side -street, and run it slow. We was almost to the factory, I judged. I could -see smoke and big walls. - -"You can have whatever schooling or training there is in this town that -you want--or anywhere else," he says to me, "if you just say the word." - -It was just the way Mr. Ember had spoken, and Mr. Ember had meant that I -mustn't think there was nothing else for me only just what I'd got, if -I was willing to work for something more. So I see the little young man -must think as he did. - -"It's nice to think so," I says. - -"Do you mean it?" says he. - -"Why, of course," I says. "Is this the factory?" - -"You insist on trying for a job?" he says. - -"Why, yes," I says. "Don't you think I can get one?" - -"Sure you can get one," he says, "if I say the word." - -I wondered how he done what he done. It wasn't five minutes that I -waited in the stuffy dirty room by the gate into the factory yard, -before a man come and told me to go up to the next floor. - -When I crossed the yard the little young man come out of a door and he -says to me: - -"Good-by, and good luck to you." And he adds low, "I'll be waiting for -you at six o'clock at the door we came in." - -"Oh," I says, "don't you do that, Mr. Carney! Mr. Ember wouldn't want -me to trouble the other Mr. Carney or you either, not that much." - -He scowled. "This isn't exactly on his account, you know." - -And when he went off he didn't take off his hat to me, like Mr. Ember -had done, and like I thought city men always done. - -I kept thinking all that over while they started me in to work, punching -holes in a card. I thought about it so hard that when night came I asked -the forewoman if I could walk to the car with her. I thought I could -take the street-car, now I had a job. She was a big red woman. "That -don't work with me, you'll find," she says, and went past me. I guess -she didn't understand what I said. So I went out with some of the other -girls, and it just happened that I got out another door than the one I -went in, and on to the street-car. - -I bought a can of peas and four rolls and five cents butter, to -celebrate. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, when I went in, "scratch a match, and start the -cook stove up there on the wall! I've got a job for three dollars a -week, from eight till six. Didn't I tell you everything'd be easy?" - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -I counted up, and found if we were to have enough for room rent and -food, I couldn't spend any sixty cents a week for car-fare. So I left -home at seven every morning and walked to work. At night I was so tired -I took the car. Then we'd have supper on the gas-jet, and I'd try to -write; but almost always I was so sleepy I went right to bed. - -Mis' Bingy had got so she didn't cry so much. She didn't take much -comfort going out to walk, she was so afraid of Keddie finding her. - -"It's comfort enough not to feel I'm goin' to be murdered every night," -she says. "I'd just as lieve set here." - -After we'd been there three days, I wrote to Mother and to Luke. To -Mother I said: - - - "DEAR MOTHER: - - "We are well, and hope this finds you the same. I have got a job. - We are all right, and hope you are. I hope the boys are all right, - and Father. Mis' Bingy says for you to be sure to tell her the news - when you write. Mis' Bingy and the baby are well, and I am the - same. So good-by now. - - "COSMA." - - -I read it over, and wondered about it. I had never been away from home -before long enough to write a letter to them. And I couldn't think of -anything to say. It seemed to me I was a little girl in my letter. I -wondered if that was because they thought that was what I was. - -Then I wrote to Luke. You'd think that would have been harder, but it -was easier. I says: - - - "DEAR LUKE: - - "They told you, I guess, how I come off with Mis' Bingy. But, Luke, - I would of come anyway, if I could. I thought it was all right to - be your wife, but I want to see if there is anything else I would - rather do. So I'm not engaged to you any more. If I come back, and - if you are not married to somebody else, all right, if you still - want me by that time. But I don't think I'll come back for a long - time. I told you I didn't think I loved you, and you said I had to - marry somebody. But now I don't, Luke, because I got a job. Please - don't think hard of me. This was meant right, Luke. - - "COSMA." - - -I wrote another letter, too--just because it felt good to be writing it. -It said: - - - "DEAR MR. EMBER: - - "I want you to know I done as you said. I left home, and I left - Luke, and I'm going to see if there is anything in the world for me - to be that I can get to be. I've got a job, and I've got you to - thank for that. Mr. Carney's nephew got it for me. - - "There's something I want to say to you that's hard to say. I want - you to know that the walk that morning was the nicest thing that - ever happened to me. It made me see that the cheap me--the vulgar - me, like you said--wasn't the only me there is to me. Clear inside - is something that can be another me. I knew that before, in the - grove, and early in the morning, like I said. But I didn't think I - could ever let it out enough to be me. I didn't trust it, not till - you came. - - "And that's what makes me think I can be different, the way you - said to. I'd hate for you to think I was just the sassy girl I - acted that morning. There's something else I can't bear to have - you think--that's that I didn't know how different I acted at the - table from what you did. I did know. - - "I've got a job, and Mis' Bingy and the baby are here--I knocked - her husband down before I come because he was drunk and was going - to kill her, so we thought we better leave there. That was how we - come. But I guess I would have come anyway after I talked with you. - - "Your friend, - - "COSMA WAKELY." - - "P. S.--I say _Cosma_ all the time now." - - -I sealed it up and directed it, and slipped it in my book. I wouldn't -send it; but it was nice to write it. - -The second day I was in the factory, a girl come to me in the hall and -asked me if I'd go out with her to lunch. I said I had my roll and a -banana; but I'd walk along with her and eat 'em. She said that was what -she meant--she had some crackers and an apple. So we walked down the -block. Her name was Rose Everly. - -There was a place half-way along there where some policemen were always -sitting out, and when we went past there one of them spoke to her. She -stopped, and she gave me an introduction. - -"Miss Wakely," she says, "you meet Sergeant Ebbit." - -"Pleased to make your acquaintance," says he. "How's the strike coming -on?" - -"I don't know as I know anything about any strike," she says, throwing -up her head. - -"How about you?" he says to me. "You whinin' too?" - -I didn't know what he meant, and I guess he see I didn't. He laughed, -and brought us out a couple of oranges. - -"I'll be the first to run in the both of you, though," he says, "if you -start any nonsense." - -"What's he mean?" I says, when we went on. - -"He's new over here, or he wouldn't be so sassy, not to me," says Rose. -"Well, I brought you out here to put you wise." - -Then she told me, while we walked up and down and et our oranges. - -It seems there was things in the factory that I didn't have any notion -about. My own job was in the printing office, connected with the -factory. I was running a Gordon press, at slow speed, learning to feed -it right. At the first of the next week, I was going to be put on full -speed. We was to print from twelve thousand to fifteen thousand -envelopes a day, then; and I knew what that meant, from watching the -other machines. There was a time keeper over the full-speed machines, -and it was hurry, hurry, hurry, all day long. It was all right while I -was learning it, but I hated to think about making the same motion -twelve or fifteen thousand times every day. In our room there was sixty -or so. I used to notice the air, it smelled of some kind of gas and it -was full of paper dust. When they swept up they never wet the broom; and -when I asked the man if he didn't know enough to do that he swore at me. -It wasn't a nice place to work. - -But it seems there was other things that I didn't know about yet. There -was fines for everything, and dockings for most that many. We had to go -through the other factory to get out, and it seems they locked the doors -on us as soon as we got in, and of course that was bad if there'd be a -fire. Then there was things about the foreman; and there wasn't any -Saturday half-holiday. And it seems the girls had joined together and -asked for better things. And Rose wanted to know if I'd be one of them. - -"Sure," I says, "is there anybody that won't?" - -"Them that's afraid of their jobs," she says. "If we don't get what we -think we ought to have, we'll--quit. We're going to have a meeting -to-morrow night. Can you come, and will you talk?" - -"Sure I'll come," I says. "But I can't talk. I don't know enough." - -The sergeant says something else to us when we come back. - -"He'll likely be running us both in for getting a row made at us, -picketing, next week at this time," Rose said. At the door she took hold -of my arm. "Good for you!" she says. "We was all afraid of you when we -heard about Carney." - -"What do you mean?" I asked her. - -"'Bout Arthur Carney gettin' you your job," she says. - -"Yes," I says. "What's that got to do with it?" - -She laughed. "You baby!" she says. "Don't you know he owns the whole -outfit?" - -"The _factory_?" I says. - -He owned most of it, she told me. I kept going over that all the while I -fed my machine. And I kept going over what he'd said to me in his car. I -felt as if I didn't want to see him again, no matter how much he talked -about school; but I tried not to think that, because he was Mr. Carney's -nephew, and Mr. Carney was Mr. Ember's friend. - -I went to the meeting, as I said I would; but it was hard for me to make -much out of it. There was all these things ought to be changed in the -factory, and we knew it, and we thought we'd ought to have a little more -wages; I wanted more when I began on full speed, but I didn't think I -was going to get it. It seemed to me the thing to do was to ask to have -things changed, and, if they didn't do it, quit till they did change -them. But at the meeting I found that there was those that was afraid to -ask--just for fire-escapes and decent cleanliness and a few cents more a -week and extra pay for overtime. And then I found out something else, -that if they wouldn't give us these things and we did quit, there was -some of us that wouldn't agree to quit, and maybe others that would come -in and take our jobs, and put up with what we had been trying to make -better. When I got that through my head, I stood right up at the meeting -to ask a question. - -"They couldn't take our jobs if we stood out in front and tried to get -it into their heads what we was trying to do, could they?" I says. -"Ain't it just because they don't see what we're trying to do?" - -They all laughed, and the woman that was speaking--somebody from outside -the factory--says yes, she thought that was it, they didn't see what we -were trying to do. - -The next day was Sunday, and I could hardly wait. I was up early and out -while Mis' Bingy was still asleep. I hated to leave her all day, but it -seemed as if ever since I come to the city something out there was -calling me. I dunno where I went. I tramped for miles, and I spent -fifteen cents car-fare, besides transfers, but I didn't care. I had some -rolls in a bag, and I et them when I didn't show. And I looked and -looked. - -I found hundreds of folks, going off for all day, washed and dressed up -and with lunches and children, headed out in the country, I judged. Some -of them looked like Father and Mother and Mis' Bingy, and as if they -couldn't be any other way. I set on the car with them, and kind of see -_through_ them, and knew how they must snap each other up, home, when -they wasn't dressed up. I wondered what God wanted so many for, that -couldn't be different because it was too late. But some, and most of all -the children, looked as if they might have been most anybody, if they -were given a chance. I wondered how they could get the chance, and if -none of them tried. I wondered how I could try. I knew I'd never get it -in the factory. No matter if we got all the things we were asking for, -it was a dog's life--I knew that already. It wasn't much better than -Bert and Henny had, to the blast furnace. They got dirty, and had to -work straight twenty-four hours once every two weeks; but they made -their dollar-twenty a day, and not any of us done that. I kept trying to -think how to get started. - -At the end of one car line I got off and walked over to the river. There -was beautiful houses there--more beautiful than I had ever seen, even in -the pictures. I thought they must have awful big families, they had so -many up-stairs rooms. The grass looked combed and fluffed, much better -than the babies' hair around the factory. Somebody give an awful lot of -time to the flowers, and the river showed through the bushes. I liked -the nice curtains, and when automobiles went by I liked to look at the -ladies, they seemed so clean and tended. But I wondered why. - -I stood looking through the iron fence of a great big house when a -policeman come along. - -I says to him, before he could get passed, "I was wishing I knew the -names of the folks that live in there." - -He stopped like a wall that knew how to walk. "Well, missy," says he, -"and was ye thinkin' of buyin' it in?" - -"No," I says, "not with nothin' but you to watch it." And then I walked -on fast, and felt sick, sick at myself. Not one of them tended ladies in -the automobiles would have spoke like that. And Mr. Ember would have -hated me if he'd heard me say it. How did folks ever get over being -smart and quick, and be just regular? - -After a while, I come past a big church, and I went in. I never liked -church, because the minister had always kept at me to join and I didn't -think I was good enough. But I knew nobody would ever ask me to join -here. There was one reason, though, why I liked it, even home--everybody -acted nice, and like there was company. Once I said that, home, to the -table, when everybody was jawing, "Let's act like we was in church," I -said. But it made Father mad, and he couldn't understand that I hadn't -meant the being good part at all. I only meant the acting nice part. - -In the church it was like that, just as if everybody had company and was -on their good behavior. They set me in the gallery, and I could see the -whole crowd. The hats was grand. But the nicest was the colors in the -dresses and the windows and the flowers. It was funny, but something in -them made me hurt. And when the music burst out sudden, it hurt me so -that I dropped my bag of rolls so's to get down and pick them up, and -get my mind off my throat. I was thinking about it afterward, and it was -the first music I'd ever heard except our reed organ in church, and Lena -Curtsy's piano, and the movies, and the circus band. And even the circus -band had hurt my throat, too. - -I never knew a word the man said, I mean the minister. He didn't talk -anyhow--he just kept on about something, as if he was trying to make -somebody mean something they didn't mean. But I liked being there. -Everybody seemed like they ought to seem. I wondered if they was. I -couldn't seem to see _through_, like I could with the folks in the -street-car. It didn't seem possible that those folks down there ever -yipped out about anything to each other, and, anyway, what could they -have to yip out about? They were all clean and tended, too. Afterward I -stood in the door and watched them pour out, talking fast, and drive -off. I liked to see them close to, and hear the way they said their -words. It made a real nice morning, but I never heard a word about God. - -I et my rolls in the park, and I stayed there a good while. The sun or -the green or something made me feel good. I tried to look at the -animals, but I hated it in the smelly places, with the poor live things -in cages. When they tore around and couldn't sit still in any one place, -I thought it was just like Mother and Father and the boys and Mis' -Bingy, they all had to stay in a little place they didn't like, doing -what they didn't want to do. I didn't blame any of them for being ugly. -The more I looked at the animals, the better I understood. Then I -thought about Keddie Bingy--and he didn't have only that little place to -stay, with the bed in the kitchen, and he hated being a stone mason, I'd -heard him tell Father that. I didn't know but I could understand why he -got drunk. Then there was Joe, that had the Dew Drop Inn, and he had to -stay there in that place, and he couldn't get out; and, anyway, the -United States let him; and I begun to see how it was that Joe got Keddie -drunk all the time. So I was glad I went to see the animals, even if I -couldn't stay on account of it making me sick. - -Outside the park was the big hotels. I wondered if I could walk inside -and look at them, but when I got to the steps, I was afraid. Then I see -a big red house behind more iron fence, with an American flag overhead, -and I asked a little boy with some papers if that was where the mayor -lived. - -"Naw," says he. "Private party. I t'ought youse was their chum, the way -youse was rubberin'." - -I give him a penny for a paper and didn't say anything. And then I felt -better about the way I'd answered the policeman. It ain't so hard to act -nice if you can only think in time. - -I walked all the way home. I went in every church I come to, because it -was some place to go in. If I'd been shot out of a gun I couldn't have -told 'em apart, and I wondered how they could tell themselves. And -everywhere I went, there wasn't a soul to speak to. I tried to imagine -what if Mis' Bingy and the baby wasn't back there in the room, and there -was nobody to speak to when I got back. It felt funny, like once when I -got too far from shore in the pond, home. I couldn't help thinking about -Mr. Carney saying: "You must let me help you to keep from being too -lonesome." And if he'd come along just then with his shiny car, I don't -know but I'd have got in. - -It was the day after that that he come to the factory and asked for me. -I didn't think he'd do that, but I guess he didn't care what he done. -The foreman called me out, and when I got into his office there was Mr. -Arthur, and he left me there with him. Mr. Arthur's hat was on the back -of his head, and his light hair was flat down on his forehead, and his -light-colored eyes and eyebrows made me want to get away from him, even -if he was Mr. Ember's friend. - -"Child," he says to me, "why are you trying to avoid me? I've found a -place for you where you can go and learn as much as you want. I've been -waiting to tell you about it. Don't you trust me?" he says. - -I says, "I'd trust any friend of Mr. Ember's." - -"Well," he says, "anyhow, trust me. I'll call here for you to-night, and -you let me tell you what I've got planned for you." - -"I'm going to meet with some of the girls to-night, Mr. Carney," I says. - -"Cut that out," he says. "Come with me." - -I laughed at that. "You act like your way was the way things are," I -says. - -"I wish it were," he says, "I wish it were." - -"Listen, Mr. Carney," I says. "I've got a good job, and I like the -girls. It's a dirty, disagreeable place to work, and we'd ought to have -a good many things we haven't got," I says to him, "but I guess I'll -stick it out for a while. I couldn't come to-night, anyway." - -"I'll wait for you to-morrow night, then," he says. "We'll have a little -dinner somewhere, and a run in the car--" - -It was getting awful hard to remember to act nice, and I spilled over. - -"You got the ways of a hitching-post," I says; "but you ain't got the -tie-strap." And I walked out and left him there. - -Two nights he run his car down to the door where he'd found I come out. -Once I pretended not to see him, and run and caught a street-car. Once -he jumped out and walked along beside me, and the girls fell back. I -told him Mis' Bingy and I were going to have a banquet of wieners, fried -on the gas-jet, and I couldn't come. He put a note in my hand, he never -seemed to care what anybody thought, I noticed that about him. - -Mis' Bingy and I read the note, while the wieners were frying. - - - "Don't keep me waiting," it said. "I want to see you the glorious - creature you could be if you had the training you say you want. - Music, riding, whatever you ask for, you shall have it all, on my - honor. Don't I deserve a little more confidence from you? - - A. C." - - -Mis' Bingy rocked back and forth on the bed. - -"Cossy Wakely," she said, "it's my fault, it's my fault. I brung you. -Let's us go back, Cossy, right off. Let's us go back." - -"Oh, pshaw, Mis' Bingy!" I says, "I guess he means it right. We're -just--vulgar." - -"Oh, what a world," says Mis' Bingy. "Ain't there no place women can get -shed of men, with their drunkenness and their devilment?" - -I couldn't feel that way a bit. "I don't want to," I says. "I want to -find the other kind of men. There is them!" - -We had a nice supper, and then I wrote in this book. It was beginning to -be so I could hardly wait to get at it. I wondered if that was the way -Mr. Ember felt about his work. Then I thought about the factory, and -remembered that that was work, too. It didn't seem as if they ought to -have the same name. - -Next morning Rose went up the stairs with me. - -"You know you'll either have to quit your job or else give in, don't -you?" she says. - -I looked at her. - -"Are you sure?" I says, "I thought maybe my being afraid of him was just -being--vulgar." - -"You baby," she says. "It ain't your fault. Everybody understands. We -always tell the new pretty ones. But he brought you here--" - -I tried to think what to do, all that day, while I fed the press. I -could think well enough--the work was just one motion, one motion, one -motion, and I didn't have to think about that. But I knew in a little -while the rest of my head wouldn't think while I worked, and that I -should just stand there with the smell of the oil and the ink and the -gas and the paper dust, and the noise. I wondered what we was all doing -it for, just to earn money to keep breathing, and to supply Mr. Arthur -Carney with money for "little dinners somewhere," and the shiny car. It -didn't seem worth while, not for any of us. - -At noon Rose and I walked again, she wanted to tell me about a meeting -for that night. They'd heard that morning from Mr. Carney. He wouldn't -give in on one of the things, except to promise to unlock the doors -while we worked. "But he's promised that before," Rose says. "It don't -last. We're going to take the vote to-night on walking out." - -"What!" says Sergeant Ebbit, when we come by. "Ain't you two struck -yet?" - -"Don't you want to be?" says Rose, pretending to hit at him. I don't -know how any of us can act nice, with everybody joshing us so free. - -I promised to go to the meeting, and that meant that I couldn't go home -to supper, because it was so far to walk back. And when I come out the -door, there was Mr. Carney's car, and him walking toward me. I never -stopped a minute. I walked straight through the girls and got into his -car. He jumped in after me and banged the door. I heard the girls -titter. "You glorious thing," I heard him say; and I says, low: - -"I've got one errand, though. Will you take me there?" - -"Anywhere under heaven," he says. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -I showed Mr. Carney which way. We went past the girls, and round the -corner, and straight down the narrow street where we always walked -eating our lunch. I motioned where to stop. I jumped out. Sergeant Ebbit -was alone just inside the door of the police station. - -"Hello, Beauty," he says; "what can I do for you?" - -I says, "I want you to come out here and arrest a fresh young guy with a -car, that's been bothering me." - -He jumped up and followed. He was new there, as Rose had said, and then -he kind of liked me, too. I'd known that several days, and I was -depending on it now. He come hurrying, like I thought he would, and he -says, "I know them fool kids, and I'll learn 'em, if you say so." And -before he see Mr. Carney he blew his whistle. - -"That's him," I says, pointing to the little shiny car. - -It makes me laugh now to remember the sergeant's face. But another -policeman was coming, running. And folks stopped and stared. And I -slipped out the station door quick, and turned the corner and dodged -straight across the factory yard and took to my heels. - -It was after six o'clock, so the streets were alive. I walked along, -never noticing where I was going. I looked down the street. As far as I -could see there went the heads, men and women, bobbing along home. Half -of them, I thought, had just the same kind of box to live in that Mis' -Bingy and I had. Yet there they was, going to work every day by -clockwork, always thinking something good was going to come of it. I -tramped along with them. There was something good in the way our feet -all come down on the walk together. In spite of everything, I felt fine. -But I guess that was because I was young and well. Some of them that -passed me, their heads didn't stay up and their feet dragged. And they -didn't seem to know each other was there. If only they could have felt -the good feeling of marching together, it seemed to me they'd be less -tired. - -"They've got to find out different," I thought. "How can they?" - -The most of them crossed east on Broadway and under a covered place with -bells clanging. I saw the sign "Brooklyn Bridge," so I went up the steps -and out on the bridge, and I walked clear across it and back again. I'll -never forget that walk. I was looking at the others and looking at -them--the folks that was workers, like me. I seemed to know something -about them they didn't know. It seemed as if I had to do something. - -A bunch of little young girls passed me, all laughing. They seemed years -younger than I was. I thought of them--of the day they'd had in the -factory--bad air, noise, work that was dead before it was born, and -maybe a home where there was rows, or maybe just nobody at all; and -somebody like Arthur Carney coming to help them be a little less -lonesome. And then I faced it honest: Suppose he hadn't had flat hair -and light eyes. Suppose he had looked different, so that I would have -_wanted_ to go to dinner with him? - -I begun to walk fast, back to town. Across the bridge I went in a little -down-stairs place to get something to eat. I was thinking so hard I -never knew I'd ordered a quarter's worth till I got the bill. But I -didn't care much. Everything else seemed all of a sudden to matter so -much more. - -That night, when I walked into the meeting, they all stared. I s'pose -the word had got round that I'd gone with him. I whispered to Rose that -I wanted to say something, and she give me a chance right away. When I -got up on the platform and faced 'em, I wasn't afraid. I was glad. - -I told them that just because I had got to leave, I didn't want them to -think I was going to forget. And that they mustn't forget, either. "It -ain't caught me yet," I told 'em. "I'm new and from the country, and I -can see what it is that you're getting, like you can't see. And what I -say is this: Quit your hoping. Just know that until we get together -ourselves, nothing will come out of the factory except what we're -getting now. Quit your hoping, and help. That's my last word." - -And yet I guess you can't blame anybody for being afraid of being -hungry. I'd never been hungry yet, so I was brave. - -I didn't tell Mis' Bingy that night that I'd lost my job. I didn't tell -her till next morning when she woke up, scared that I was late. We went -out in the park with the baby. - -"We'll be all right, Mis' Bingy," I says, "don't you worry." - -I was sitting on the grass. And when I spoke so, I happened to see my -foot sticking from under my skirt. The whole half of my shoe sole had -come off, and was gone, and the nails was all showing. Ten days' rent it -would take to buy me another pair. - -Just now I tore out thirty pages of this book. And just now I read them -over. They made me sick to read them, not because of what was there, but -because of what wasn't there. It was the same thing over and over again -all that time. Hat factory, ribbon factory, braid factory, silk factory, -and ten weeks rolling stogies. Some places the girls cared, and was -trying to make others care to get things better. In others it was get -what you could, look your best, and marry the first man that asked you. - -Every place I went, I begun asking about the things that Rose had taught -me about--fines, and dockings, and fire safety, and the rest. Then I -talked to the girls. That was why I didn't "last." - -"You'll get used to things one of these days," says a forelady to me. - -"That's what I'm afraid of," I told her. - -But the worst was, there wasn't any fun. There wasn't anything to go to, -and, anyhow, I couldn't afford the car-fare back in the evening. - -Mis' Bingy had found a place where she could leave the baby a little -while every day, and she done some cleaning. We moved out of our first -room to one farther up that didn't cost so high. I got so I begun to -think ahead, nights. - -Then one night when I come in, the lady we rented of says a lady had -been there to see me; "A lady," she says, "that come in a automobile and -says her words as careful as if she was a-singin' in the church. She's -a-comin' back again." - -And when she come, she stood by the table and says: - -"Miss Wakely, I am Mis' Arthur Carney." - -"My land!" I says. It had never entered my head that he might have a -wife on top of everything else. - -"I have been hearing," she says, "of what you did some time ago. I mean -about--Mr. Carney. I have come to find you, because it seemed to me that -you must be a remarkable girl." - -"Oh, Mis' Carney," I says, "nobody needs to be remarkable to think of -getting _him_ arrested." - -And then I remembered something: "Yes, sir!" I says, "it was you! It -was you that was in the pinkish dress in Mr. Ember's house that day!" - -And I told her what she had been saying when she passed the door. But -all I was thinking was--she knew; him. She knew Mr. Ember, too! - -She talked to me a long time. She didn't ask me many questions--and I -didn't tell her much about me, but still in a little while we felt real -acquainted. And pretty soon she says: - -"I came really, you know, to see whether you had found another -position--after you left that one. I've had a good deal of a time -finding you out. What have you done since? What are you doing now?" - -I told her some of it. - -"And what do you want to do?" she says then. - -I don't know what give me the courage. It was just like something in me -said: "Tell her. Tell her. Tell her." And I said it. - -"Oh," I says, "I'd work my head off if I could go somewheres to school. -But I don't want to know just school things. I want to know more than -them...." - -"What do you want to know?" she says. - -It was funny how easy it was to talk to her. Father or Mother or Luke or -Mis' Bingy, that I'd known all my life, I couldn't have explained things -to like I could to her. But I think that was part because she didn't -need everything all said out in sentences, and then it was part because -I knew she wouldn't make a fuss at me when I got through. - -When she went away: "I'm going to look around a little," she says, "I'll -come back in a few days." - -"But, oh," I says, "you know, there's Mis' Bingy and the baby. I -couldn't do anything that'd take me away from her. I don't know why you -bother with me anyway," I says. - -She had the loveliest dignified way. "We owe you something, my husband -and I," she says. - -But of course I knew that that was just her manner of speaking, and that -her husband didn't know a thing about what she was doing, and that -probably it was one of those speeches that everybody keeps making, like -when Mis' Bingy talked, in the depot, of taking her baby away from "a -father's care." - -She went off in her automobile, and I stood on the step looking after -her. The very thought that there could be anybody in the world like her, -that would do what she'd done, made me feel like I understood the earth. -I told Mis' Bingy, and she sat a long time looking out the window with -her mouth open. - -"If Keddie had done that," she says, "I bet a quarter of a pound of tea, -I'd blame the girl." - -I'd have thought everybody would. We talked it over. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "maybe they's ways to be decent we don't even -_know_ about." - -She kep' her mouth open. "Then who's to blame if we don't act up to 'em, -I donno," she says, after a while. - -"I donno, too," I says. "It must be somebody, though." - -And we both thought it must be. - -The next day was Sunday, and Mis' Bingy and I done what we'd been going -to do for a long time. We walked up to the park, and inside the big -building where the pictures are. Mis' Bingy set on a bench and fed the -baby, while I wandered round. - -I guess you're supposed to feel nice and real awed when you first go to -that big place. I guess you're supposed to be glad you live in a city -where they're free to you. I thought I was going to have a good time. -But instead of that I kept getting madder and madder. Once I begun to -talk out loud, and I was afraid they'd put me out. It was when I come to -a big room full of statues, with one big white one that said under it -"Apollo." I'd never heard the name. I says to the man in the hall: - -"Can you tell me who that Apollo was--and why he's stuck up here?" - -"Catalogues twenty-five cents each, at the door," says the man. - -"Well," I says, "I ain't got the quarter to spare. But I thought mebbe -you knew." - -"He was the Greek god of beauty and song," he says, stiff. And the next -thing I knew I was standing there in front of the Greek god talking out -loud. And I says: - -"I'd like to twist the nose off your face, just because I've never heard -of you before--nor you--nor you--nor you--nor you. _Why_ ain't I never -heard of you?" - -I run for Mis' Bingy. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "are you ready to go?" - -She followed me without a word. Out on the steps she says, shaking: - -"Which was it--Keddie or Carney?" - -"It was neither," I says, "it was that smart white god in there, and all -the rest of 'em. Mis' Bingy! Folks _know_ about 'em. They know when they -go there, and they know about pictures. I heard 'em talking. What's the -reason we don't know?" - -"Go on!" says Mis' Bingy. "We ain't the kind of folks them things are -calculated for." - -"It's a lie!" I says. "It's a lie! I could almost like 'em now--only I -got so mad." - -I set down on a bench in the park, and cried. And I didn't care who -heard me. - -Mis' Bingy stood up, waiting for me, hushing the baby back and forth on -her hip. - -"I use' to feel like that when I was a girl," she says. "You'll get over -it." She kept saying that, several times. "You'll get over it, Cossy," -as if she thought it was some comfort. - -"That's what I'm afraid of," I says, after a while. - -We transferred at Eighth Street on the way down, because there was -something else I'd heard about and I hadn't ever seen yet. We walked -east through the square, under the arch, and I asked a policeman for -what I was looking for, and he showed me: The top story where the fire -had been in a factory. The girls had told me about it, and I told Mis' -Bingy, and we stood and looked. That was where they had jumped from. -That was where they had hit the sidewalk, a hundred and eighteen of -them, smashed or burned to death. - -"It might have been you, Cossy," Mis' Bingy says, staring up and -swinging the baby. - -"It _was_ me," I says. "I felt like it was me when I heard it--and I -feel like it was me now." - -But I didn't want to cry for that. While I looked I got still inside, -still and sick, and sure. I guess I felt like I was every factory girl -in in New York. The hundred and eighteen wasn't the worst off--I knew -that now. I wondered how many of them some Carney had chased, to "help -them be a little less lonesome." I wondered how many of them could talk -English. I wondered how many of them ever had it in their heads for a -minute that there was anything else for them only just what they had. -Then I thought about that Greek god of beauty and song. And them hundred -and eighteen and most of the other girls and Mis' Bingy and me never -even knew there was such a guy. - -Two days later Mis' Carney come back. The landlady had a book agent, -entertaining him in the parlor, so I had to take her right up to our -room. It was nice and clean, and Mis' Bingy always combed her hair and -changed her dress after dinner, just like she had at home afternoons, -when she'd got the dishes washed up. She was making lace by the window, -and the baby was on the floor. It was late, and we'd got a whole pie tin -of wieners sizzling over the gas-jet. - -"Mis' Carney, you meet Mis' Bingy," I says. But Mis' Carney hardly -looked at her. She bent right over the pillow that Mis' Bingy's work was -on. - -"Do you mean," Mis' Carney said, "that you are actually making the lace? -Here in New York?" - -"Yes, ma'am," Mis' Bingy says. "Ma taught me--in the old country." - -"Have you any of it made?" Mis' Carney says. - -Mis' Bingy opened the washstand drawer and took out what she had, tied -up in a pillow case. Mis' Carney set on the bed and took it in her -hands. After a long time she looked up at me, and her face was lovely. - -"Miss Wakely," she says, "I came to tell you what I have for you to -do--and I was a good deal bothered--about your friend, Mis' Bingy. But -it seems to me that she can earn considerably more than you can--with -her lace. I paid six dollars a yard for lace like this not a fortnight -ago." - -Then she turned to me. "You're going to a school right here in town," -she said; "I have arranged everything. And now Mis' Bingy is going to -find a larger room and make her lace." - -The wieners had burned black before any of us noticed. If ever you seen -the sky open back, I guess you know. - -Mis' Carney asked me to spend Friday to Monday with her, and then she -would take me over to the school. - -"Have I got to see your husband?" I says to her, direct. - -Her husband was in Europe, so that was how she could ask me. And Friday -afternoon she come for me. - -"We can take your trunk in the car, if it's a small one," she says. - -"I ain't even got a satchel," I told her. "My other dress and things are -in this here." - -Mis' Bingy was hanging over the bannister post, and the landlady with -her. - -"Don't you go and forget me, Cossy," says Mis' Bingy, crying. - -The landlady used her face all the time like a strong light was in her -eyes. - -"She'll forget you, all right," she says. "I got two daughters -somewheres that I never hear a word out of. Best say good-by and leave -it go at that." - -I always wanted everybody to tell the truth, but that woman sort of -undressed it, and then told it. And it made a little hush, there in the -hall. - -Mis' Carney's house was big and still. She took me to a bedroom at the -back, looking out on a square garden. The furniture was white, with -rose-buds on, and there were gray and pink rugs on the floor. The light -colored rugs seemed so wonderful--just as if it didn't matter if they -did get soiled, no more than towels. Nor not so much so. On the wall was -a little picture of a boat with a bright-colored sail, on a real blue -sky. The minute I see it, the whole thing kind of come over me. And I -begun to cry. - -"Oh, Mis' Carney," I says, "we got a picture in the parlor, home. But it -don't look like that." - -"Is that what you are crying for?" she asked. - -"No," I says, "I don't think so. I was thinking about the bed. Mother -and I looked at one in a show-window, once." - -I remembered how Mother had stood and looked at it, all made up clean -and pretty, even after I was tired and wanted to go on. - -Saturday morning we went shopping. I'd never been down-town before when -I wasn't walking fast to get somewheres. This was the first time I had -ever _looked_. Everywhere there were people, hurrying and thinking. - -"Look in this window, Cosma," Mis' Carney said as we went in a store. -"How would you like that shade?" - -But the man that was fixing the things looked like a man that sold -mackintoshes at the county fair, and I watched him. - -"You ought to have a longish coat," she says, "you're so tall." - -Just then I saw a woman with gray hair, and I stood staring at her, -wondering if there was anybody's mother that looked as grand as her. - -"Cosma," Mis' Carney said, "look at the things, please. Never mind the -people." - -"Never mind the people." I knew then that they were all I cared about. -It wasn't so much the folks shopping that I saw--it was the girls, the -whole army of girls that was waiting on them. When you get to look at -the shops that way, then you know more about them than you did before. -But the folks on the sidewalks kind of got me too. Out in the car I says -to Mis' Carney: - -"I know! It ain't just school or clothes or you that makes me feel good. -It's something else. It's because I ain't worrying over the rent!" - -I saw the folks on the sidewalks, all hurrying and thinking. I knew them -all now. Half of them were worrying just the way I had been, just the -way Rose was, just the way all the girls did. I felt bad for them. I -wanted to take them all off with me, to school or somewheres. - -Then come the evening I'll never forget. Mis' Carney and I had dinner by -ourselves in a little glass room just off the big dining-room; and -afterward we went into the library. She was showing me some books, when -a bell rung, somewheres off in the house, and a maid come with a card. - -"Show him to the drawing-room," Mis' Carney said, and gave me a lot more -books and left me. And then I heard his voice in the next room where -she'd gone. I knew--the minute I heard him speak I knew. I dropped my -books and run to the curtains and stood where I could see. - -And Mr. Ember was standing by the table, with his face turned toward me, -looking just like I'd seen him last, there in Twiney's pasture. One hand -was resting on the table and the other was pushing his hair back from -his forehead, two, three times, kind of as if he was tired. And when I -see him, from my head to my feet I begun to tremble. I'd felt like that -once or twice before--once when the team got scared and begun to back -off the bridge. - -"I'm in town for the rest of the winter," he was saying. "I've a few -lectures to pull off--and a lot of proof to keep me busy. What have you -been doing with yourself?" - -Then my heart beat harder. What if she told him about me? And one minute -I was sick with being afraid she would, and next minute I was wild for -fear she wouldn't. I didn't want to see him. I'd said I wasn't going to -see him till I could meet him sometime when I was the way I was going to -be. But I'd have come pretty near to giving up my whole chance of ever -being anything, just to have his hands shut over mine and to hear him -say my name again. - -She didn't tell him, Mrs. Carney wasn't the telling kind. In a few -minutes they begun to talk of other things--Europe and Washington and -theaters. And while I stood there, looking at him and looking, it came -over me that to be listening there wouldn't be the way Mrs. Carney would -act, nor the way he'd meant me to act. So I looked at him once, hard -enough to last, the best a look can last, and then I run away up to my -room and locked the door. I stood in the middle of the floor and kind of -flung myself on to something or somebody in the air, that it seemed to -me _must_ have been listening to me. - -"Make me like I ain't," I says. "Make me different! Make me -different--YOU!" - -When I heard the door shut, I went back down-stairs. I wanted to be the -next one to talk to her after he had. She was in the library, putting -the books back. And her face was shining like I'd never seen it. - -"Oh, Cosma," she said, "some people make you feel as if it's a good -world!" - -"It is," I says, "while they're around." - -"Yes," she says, "it is--while they're around." - -That was all she said. Pretty soon she went back in the drawing-room, -and I followed her so's to be where he had been. I'd been going to sit -down in the chair where he had sat, but she sat down there. So I stood -by the table. And I was glad it happened that neither of us said -anything for quite a while. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -The school was three great buildings a little way from Mrs. Carney's -house. I had never dreamed of anything so grand as those rooms seemed to -me. What I couldn't get over was the padded carpets that you didn't make -a sound when you walked on. The furniture was big pieces, all carved and -hard to dust; and lights that didn't show was burning in the inside -rooms. There was great vases, as tall as I, and pictures as big as the -ceiling of Mrs. Bingy's and my whole room. - -The first days at that school are the kind of nightmare that it hurts to -remember even in the daytime. I begun by feeling so grand. By the second -meal I was wretched. By the time the first evening was half over and the -dancing in the gymnasium, I was sick. School wasn't the way I thought it -was. - -If only they'd taken me out and ducked me, or buried me, or left me on -the roof all night every night. But the ways they had were like pouring -vinegar in a skinned place in my heart. I ain't going to talk about it! - -And yet I never minded their laughing, if only they looked at me when -they laughed. But when they looked at each other and laughed, that -killed me. - -I'd been at the school about six months when one afternoon I was coming -across the field that everybody called the "campus." I'd never called it -that yet--it sounded like putting on. I met a lot of them coming down -from their classes. I used to begin looking at them when they were way -ahead, hoping there was somebody I knew and could speak to. I liked to -speak to them. I'd had an introduction to most of them; but they didn't -always remember me. When they did remember, they didn't always speak. -Some of them done it on purpose. But always I knew which was such. That -afternoon so many of them didn't speak to me that all of a sudden I felt -crazy to get away from them all, off somewhere by myself. I run down -the hill back of the main building. A stone wall went along by the road. -The wall was pretty high, but I put my hands on it the way I used to at -home, and I jumped up on it with my head in some branches. And I says -out loud: - -"I know how Keddie Bingy used to feel when he got drunk." - -"My word!" said somebody. "And how did he feel?" - -I looked down, and there was an automobile drawn up by the wall and a -man in it, rolling a cigarette. - -"Don't you know?" I says. - -"I don't know but I do," says he. "For example, I've been sitting here -one-half hour waiting for my sister. Do I feel the way you mean?" - -"Nothing like," I says, and turned to jump down again. - -"Don't let me drive you away," he says; "I don't mean to bother you. I -beg your pardon like anything." - -"It's all right," I said; "I was going. I didn't want to sit up here. I -don't know what I got up here for, anyway." - -I picked up my books, and he spoke again. - -"If you're really going," he said, "I wonder if I could send a message -by you?" - -"Sure thing," I says. - -"Do you know Antoinette Massy?" he asked. - -"I know her when I see her," I said; "I never spoke to her." - -"She's in the tennis court over there--or she said she'd be," he went -on. "Would you mind telling her that her brother has been sitting here -like an image for thirty-six minutes--up to now? And that in five -minutes he won't be here any more?" - -"Oh," I says, "Miss Massy! She went up to Mann Hall to rehearse, half an -hour ago. They never get through till dinner time." - -"Gad!" he said; "it takes a man's sister to put him in his true light." -He done something to the car, and then looked at me. "Would--would you -care to come for a little spin?" he asked. - -[Illustration: "Would you care to come for a little spin?"] - -"I'd care like everything," I says; "but I can't go." - -"No?" he says. "Yes, you can!" - -"I'm not going," I says. "Thanks, though." - -"Would you mind telling me why not?" he says. "Since you say you want -to, you know." - -I couldn't think of anything but the truth. - -"I'm trying to act as nice as I can," I says, "since I've been to this -school. And I guess it's nicer not to go with you." - -His face was pleasant when he kept on looking at me, though he was -laughing at me, too. - -"Look here, then," he said, "will you go with my sister and me some day? -As a favor to me, you know--so you'll get her here on time." - -"Oh," I says, "I'd love to!" - -"Done," he said. "Tell me your name, and I'll tell her we've got an -engagement with her." - -When he'd gone I jumped down from the wall and ran pell-mell up the -hill. Before I knew it, I was humming. Ain't it the funniest thing how -one little bit of a nice happening from somebody makes you all over like -new? - -Two days afterward I was leaving the dining-room when I saw Miss -Antoinette Massy coming toward me. My heart begun to beat. She was so -beautiful and dressed like a dream. She's always seemed to me somebody -far off, and different--like somebody that had died and been born again -from the way I was. - -"You're Cosma Wakely, aren't you?" she said. "My brother told me about -meeting you." I couldn't think of a thing to say. I just kept thinking -how the lace of her waist looked as if it hadn't ever been worn before; -and I noticed her pretty, rosy, shining nails. "I wondered if you -wouldn't go for a motor ride with my brother, Gerald, and myself, -to-morrow afternoon?" - -"Oh," I says, "I could, like anything." - -And all that night when I woke up, I kept thinking what was going to -happen, and it was in my head like, something saying something. It -wasn't so much for the ride--it was that they'd been the way they'd been -to me. That was it. - -I put on my best dress and my best shoes and my other hat; and when I -met Miss Massy in the parlor I see right off that I was dressed up too -much. She had on a sweater and a little cap. I always noticed that about -me--I dressed up when I'd ought not to, and times when I didn't -everybody else was always dressed up. - -Her brother came in, and I hadn't sensed before how good-looking he was. -If ever he had come to Katytown, Lena Curtsy would have met him before -he got half-way from the depot to the post-office. - -Up to then, this was my most wonderful school-day. But it wasn't the -ride. It was because they were both being to me the way they were. - -We stopped at a little road-house for tea. I hated tea, and when they -asked me to have tea, I said so. I said I'd select pop. Going back, it -was the surprise of my school life that far when Antoinette Massy asked -me if I would go home with her at the end of the week. - -"Oh," I says, "I can't! I can't!" - -"Do come," she says; "my brother will run us down. You can take your -work with you." - -"Oh," I says, "it isn't that. I guess you don't understand"--I thought I -ought to tell her just the truth--"I can't act the way you're used to, -I'm afraid," I said. "I'm learning--but I had a lot to know." - -She laughed, and made me go. I wondered why. But I couldn't help going. -I thought of all the mistakes I'd make--but then, I'd learn something, -too. "Just be yourself," Miss Antoinette said. And I said, "Myself -buttered a whole slice of bread and bit it for a week before I noticed -that the rest didn't." And when she said, "Yourself did not. You got -that from other people in the first place," I asked her, "Then, what -_is_ myself?" And she says, "That's what we're at school to find out!" - -It was in a big house on the Hudson that the Massys lived. I saw some -glass houses for flowers. When the door was opened I saw a lot more -flowers and a stained glass window and a big hall fire. - -"Oh!" I says. "Can farm-houses be like that?" - -"What does she mean?" says Mrs. Massy, and shook hands with me. I wanted -to laugh when I looked at her. She was little and thick everywhere, and -she had on a good many things, and she looked so anxious! It didn't seem -as if there was enough things in all the world to make anybody look so -anxious about them. - -Dinner was at half past seven. In Katytown supper is all over by half -past six, and at half past seven the post-office is shut. I had a little -light cloth dress, and I put that on; and then I just set down and -looked around my room. There was a big bed with a kind of a flowered -umbrella over it with lace hanging down; and a little low dressing -table, all white and glass, and my own bath showed through the open -door. And looking around that room and remembering how the house was, I -thought: - -"Oh, if Mother could have had things fixed up a little, maybe she could -have been different herself. Maybe then she'd have been Mother instead -of 'Ma' from the beginning." - -In the drawing-room were Mrs. Massy and Mr. Gerald, her looking like a -little, fat, bright-colored ball, and him like a man on some -stage--better than any man I'd seen in the Katytown opera-house -attractions, even. The dining-room was lovely, and the table was like a -long wide puzzle. I watched Miss Antoinette, and I done like her, word -for word, food for food, tool for tool. They talked more about nothing -than anybody I'd ever heard. Mrs. Massy would take the most innocent -little remark, and worry it like a terrier, and run off with the pieces, -making a new remark of each one. She had things enough around her neck -to choke her if they'd all got to going. There were two guests, enormous -women with lovely velvet belts for waists. They talked in bursts and -gushes and up on their high tiptoes--I can't explain it. It was like -another language, all irregular. I just kept still, and ate, and one or -two things I couldn't comprehend I didn't take any of. Everything would -have been all right if only one of the guests hadn't thought of -something funny to tell. - -"Elwell sounded the horn right in the midst of a group of factory girls -to-night," she said. "We were in a tearing hurry and we didn't see them. -And one of them stood still, right in the road, and she said, 'You go -round me.' Why, she might have been killed! and then we should have been -arrested. Elwell had all he could do to swing the car." - -All of a sudden come to me the picture of those girls--the girls I knew, -tracking home at night, dog-tired, dead-tired, from ten hours on their -feet and going home to what they was going home to. I saw 'em with my -heart--Rose and all the rest that I knew and that I didn't know. And the -table I was to, and the lights and the glass, blurred off. Something in -my head did something. I had just sense enough not to say anything, for -I knew I couldn't say enough, or say it right so's I could make it mean -anything. But I shoved back my chair, and I walked out the door. - -In the hall I ran. I got the front door open, and I got out on the -porch. I wanted to be away from there. What right did I have to be -there, anyhow? And while I stood there with the wind biting down on me, -all of a sudden it wasn't only Rose and Nettie and the girls I saw, but -it was Mother, too--Mother when I'd used to call her "Ma." - -Mr. Gerald was by me in a minute. - -"Miss Cosma," he said, "what is it?" - -He took my arm--in that wonderful, taking-care way that is so dear in a -man, when it is--and he drew me back into the vestibule. - -"If she speaks like that about those girls again," I said, "I'll throw -my glass of water at her." - -I hated him for what he said. What he said was: - -"By jove! You are magnificent!" - -It took all the strength out of me. "None of you see it," I said. "I -don't know what I'm here for. I don't belong here. I belong out there in -the road with those girls that the car plowed through." - -"I don't know about that," he said. "Why don't you stay here and teach -me something about them? I don't even know what you mean." - -He put me in a chair by the fire, and they sent me some coffee there. I -heard him explaining that I felt a little faint. I wanted to yell, "It's -a lie." I knew, then, that I was a savage--all the pretty little smooth -things they used to cover up with, I wanted to rip up and throw at all -of them. - -"I hate it here," I thought. "I hate the factory. I hate home. I hate -Luke...." - -That was nearly everything that I knew; and I hated them all. Was it me -that everything was wrong with, I wondered? I was looking down at Mr. -Gerald's hands that had moved so dainty and used-to-things all the while -he was eating. That made me think of Mr. Ember's hands when he was -eating that morning at Joe's. These folks all did things like Mr. Ember. -And I'd got to stay there till I knew how to do them, too. But from that -minute I began to wonder why folks that can do things so dainty don't -always live up to it in other ways, like it seemed to me he did. And -then I got to thinking about his patience with me, so by the time the -rest came in from the dining-room I was all still again. - -When the guests had gone I was standing by some long curtains when Miss -Antoinette walked over to me. "You lovely thing," she said. "By that -rose curtain you are stunning. Stand still, dear. Gerald, look." - -But I didn't think much about him; and my eyes brimmed up. - -"You called me 'dear,'" I says. "You're about the first one." - -She put her arm around me, and then it come out. Her brother had one -wing of the ground floor all to himself. It was a studio. He painted. -And he wanted to paint me. There was only one thing I thought about. - -"I'll be glad to do that," I says, "if you'll both teach me some of the -things you see I don't know--talking, eating, everything." - -The way they hesitated was so nice for my feelings it was like having my -first lesson then. - -I went down there the whole spring. And there, and to the school, -little by little I learned things. I knew it--I could almost feel it. I -didn't always know what I'd learned, but I knew that it was changing me. -I don't know any better feeling. It's more fun than making a garden. -It's more fun than watching puppies grow. It was almost as much fun as -writing my book. And back of it all was the great big sense, shining and -shining, that I was getting more the way I wanted to be, that I _had_ to -be, if ever I was to see _him_ again. John Ember was in my life all the -time, like somebody saying something. - -Pretty soon Miss Antoinette's maid put my hair up a different way. And -Miss Antoinette had a nice gown of hers altered for me. I'll never -forget the night I first put on that lace dress. We'd motored out as -usual, on a Friday in May, when I'd been going there most three months. -They were going to have a few people for dinner. I'd had a peep at the -table, that looked like a banquet, and I thought: "Not a thing on it, -Cosma Wakely, that you don't know how to use right. Wouldn't Katytown -stick out its eyes?" And when Miss Antoinette's maid put the dress on -me, I most jumped. I wouldn't have believed it was me. - -I remember I come out of my room, loving the way the lace felt all -around me. The hall was lighted bright down-stairs, and, beyond, some -folks were just coming into the vestibule, in lovely colored cloaks. And -all of a sudden I thought: - -"Oh--living is something different from what I always thought! And I -must be one of the ones that's intended to know about it!" - -It was a wonderful, grand feeling; and it was surprising what confidence -it gave me. At the foot of the stairs, one of the maids knocked against -me with a big branched candlestick she was carrying. - -"You should be more careful!" I says to her, sharp. And I couldn't help -feeling like a great lady when she apologized, scared. - -In the drawing-room the first person I walked into was Mr. Gerald. I'd -been seeing him almost every week--usually he and Miss Antoinette drove -me down on Friday nights. But I'd never seen him quite like this. - -"By jove! By jove!" he said, and bowed over my hand just the way I'd -seen him do to other women. "Oh, Cosma!" - -He'd never called me that before. I liked his saying it, and saying it -that way. When I went to meet the rest, and knew he was watching me and -that he liked the way I looked--instead of being embarrassed I thought -it was fun. - -And when it was Mr. Gerald that took me down, and we all went into that -beautiful room, and to the dinner table that I wasn't afraid of--I can't -explain it, but everything I'd ever done before seemed a long way off -and I didn't want to bother remembering. - -It was a happy two hours. After a while I began to want to say little -things, and I found I could say them so nobody looked surprised, or -glanced at anybody else after I had spoken. That was a wonderful thing, -when I first noticed that they didn't glance at each other when I said -anything. I saw I could say the truth right out, if I only laughed about -it a little bit, and they'd call it "quaint," and laugh too, instead of -thinking I was "bad form." There was quite an old man on my right, and I -liked that. I always got along better with them than the middle ones -that wanted to talk about themselves. - -Just as soon as the men came up-stairs, Mr. Gerald came where I was. He -wanted me to go down the rooms to see a "Chartron." I thought it was -some kind of furniture; but when I got there it was a picture of Miss -Antoinette, and we sat down with our backs to it. - -"How are you?" Mr. Gerald said--his voice was kind of like he kept boxes -of them and opened one special for you. "Tell me about yourself." - -"I feel," I said, "as if I'd been sitting on the edge of things all my -life, and I'd just jumped over in. It's a pity you never were born -again. You can't tell how it feels." - -"Yes, I was," he said, "I've been born again." - -"Well, didn't it make you want to forget everything that had happened -to you before?" I said. - -"It does," said Mr. Gerald; "and I have. You know, don't you, that I -count time now from the day I met you?" - -"Great guns!" I said. - -It took me off my feet so that I didn't remember to say "My word," like -they'd told me. I sat and stared at him. - -He laughed at me. "You wonder!" he said. "They'll never spoil you, after -all. Cosma,--couldn't you? Couldn't you?" - -"Why, Mr. Gerald," I says, "I'd as soon think of loving the president." - -"Don't bother about him," he says. "Love me." - -Some more folks came in then to see the Chartron, and I never saw him -any more that night till they were leaving. Then he told me Miss -Antoinette was going back on Sunday, but he'd run me in town on Monday -morning, if I'd go. I said I'd go. - -It was raining that Monday morning, and everything smelled sort of -old-fashioned and nice, and the rain beat in our faces. - -"Cosma," he said, "don't keep me waiting." - -"Why not?" I said. I can see just the way the road went stretching in -front of us. I looked at it, and I thought _why not_, _why not_.... I'd -been saved from Katytown. I'd been saved from Luke, from Mr. Carney, -from the factory. I'd been given my school, and now this chance. _Why -not?_ - -"Because I love you so much that it isn't fair to me," he said. - -And he thought he was answering what I had said, but instead he was -really answering what I had thought. - -"You like your new life, don't you?" he said. "Why not have it all the -time, then? And if you love me, even a little, I can make you happy--I -know I can." - -"And could I make you happy?" I said. - -"Gad!" said Mr. Gerald. - -The road was empty in the soft beating rain. With the slow and perfectly -sure way he did everything he ran the car to the curb and turned to me. - -"Cosma," he said. - -I looked at him. Just a word of mine, and my whole life would be -settled, to be lived with him, and with all that I began to suspect I -was meant to have. I kept looking at him. I felt a good deal the way I -had felt when I looked at a long-distance telephone and knew, with a -word, I could talk a thousand miles. And I didn't feel much more. - -He took me in his arms and drew my wet face close to his, that was warm, -as his lips were warm. - -"I want you for my wife," he said. - -It seemed so wonderful that he should love me that I thought mostly -about that, and not about whether I loved him at all. I sat still and -said: - -"I don't see how you can love me. There's so much I've got to learn yet, -before I'm like the ones you know." - -"You're adorable," he said; "you're glorious. I love you. I want you -with me always.... Cosma! Say maybe. Say just that!" - -So then I did the thing so many girls had done before me and will do -after me: - -"Well, then," I said, "maybe." - -He frightened me, he was so glad. I felt left out. I wished that I was -glad like that. - -But it was surprising how much more confidence I had in myself after I -knew that a man like Mr. Gerald loved me. - -"That's because," I said to me, "women have counted only when men have -loved them." - -And I thought that had ought to be different. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -One day toward spring I went down to see Mrs. Bingy. She had three women -in her room every day, making the lace. She had regular customers from -the shops. When I went in she was in a good black dress and was sitting -holding the baby, that was beginning now to talk. - -"Oh, Cossy," she says, "look what I got," and pointed to some papers. - -"Katytown papers," I said. "I don't suppose there's a soul there outside -the family that I care whether I ever see again or not." - -"Why, Cossy," she said, "there's Lena--" - -"Lena Curtsy!" I said. "Good heavens! Mrs. Bingy, I wish you wouldn't -call me 'Cossy.'" - -"I always do forget the Cosma," she said humbly; "I'll try to remember -better. But Lena Curtsy--Cossy, she's married to Luke." - -"Good for them," I said; "and I suppose they had a charivari that woke -the cemetery. That's Katytown." - -"They've gone to housekeeping to Luke's father's," said Mrs. Bingy. -"Don't you want to read about it, Cossy--Cosma?" - -I took the paper. "Mrs. Bingy," I said, "I came down to show you my new -dress." - -"It's a beauty," she said. "I noticed it first thing when I see you. It -must be all-silk." She examined it with careful fingers. "I made this of -mine myself," she added, proud. - -"Do you know anything about Keddie?" I asked her. - -She begun to cry. "That's all that's the matter," she says. "The first -money I earned I sent him enough to go and take the cure. The letter -come back to me, marked that they couldn't find him. So I took the baby -and run down to Katytown, and, sure enough, the house was rented to -strangers and not a stick of furniture left in it. He'd sold it all off -and went West. And me with the money to give him the cure, when it's too -late. I ought," she says, "never to have left him." - -"Mrs. Bingy," I says, "do you honestly believe that?" - -"No," says she, "I don't. But it's a terrible thing to own up to. I saw -your Ma in Katytown." - -"Oh!" I says. "How is she? She don't write. She just wrote once and put -in a dollar chicken money." - -"They think you'll be back yet," Mrs. Bingy says. "Your Pa says, 'Her -place is here to home with her Ma. Her Ma's getting along in years now, -and she needs her to home, and she'd ought to come back.'" - -"Why don't the boys come back?" I says. - -"Oh, they're working," Mrs. Bingy says, surprised. - -"So am I," I says. "Mrs. Bingy! Do you think I ought to go back?" - -She leaned forward and spoke it behind her hand. - -"No," she says, "I don't. But it's a terrible thing to own up to." - -I went back to the school that Monday morning, wondering why it seems -hard to own up to so many things that's true. If they're true, the -least you can do is to own up to them, ain't it? - -It was some time before this that I'd made up my mind to try for the -Savage Prize. The Savage Prize was open to the whole school, and it was -for the best oration given at a contest the week before commencement. I -was pretty good at what I called speaking pieces, and what they called -"vocational expression." And I had some things in my head that I wanted -to write about. I'd decided to write on "Growing," and I meant by that -just getting different from what you were, that my head was so full of. -I had a good deal to say, beginning with that white god that I knew all -about now. But Rose Everly didn't know. And I wondered why. - -One day the principal called me in her office. - -"Miss Spot has showed me the rough draft of your oration," she said. "It -is admirable, Cosma. But I should not emphasize unduly the painful fact -that there are many to whom growth is denied. Dwell on the inspiring -features of the subject. Let it bring out chiefly sweetness and light." - -"But--" I says. - -"That will do, Cosma. Thank you," said the principal. - -While I was working on the Savage Prize oration, trying to make it "all -sweetness and light," Antoinette sent me a note, in history class. - - - "Jolly larks!" she said, "Friday. Dinner at the Dudleys' studio. - Opera in the Dudleys' box. Our house for Sunday. Look your best. - Baddy Dudley is back--You remember about him?" - - -Mr. Gerald had been promising to take us to the Dudleys' studio. Mr. -Dudley's brother, "Baddy," spending that winter in Italy, had had a -kodak picture of Antoinette and me and had sent me messages through -Gerald. - -On the night of the party I was dressing in my room at the school when a -maid came up with a message. A girl was down-stairs to see me. My lace -gown and a white cloak that Antoinette had loaned me were spread on the -bed. I was just finishing my hair and tying in it a gold rose of -Antoinette's when my visitor came in. It was Rose Everly. - -I'll never forget how Rose looked. She had on a little tight brown -jacket and a woolen cap. Her skirt was wet and her boots were muddy. She -stood winking in the light, and panting a little. - -"My!" she said, "you live high up, don't you?" Then she stood staring at -me. "Cosma," she said, "how beautiful!" - -She dropped into a chair. In that first thing she said she had been the -old Rose. Then she got still and shy, and sat openly looking at my -clothes. She was not more than twenty-one, and the factory life had not -told on her too much. Yet some of the life seemed to have gone out of -her. She talked as if not all of her was there. She sat quietly and she -looked as if she were resting all over. But her eyes were bright and -interested as she looked at my dress. - -I said, "People have been good to me, Rose. They gave me these." - -"You're different, too," she said, looking hard at me. "You talk -different, too. Oh, dear. I bet you won't do it!" - -"Tell me what it is," I said, and put the lace dress over my head. - -"It's the first meeting since the fire," Rose said. "I wanted you -there." - -I asked her what fire, and her eyes got big. - -"Didn't you know," she said, "about the fire in our factory? Didn't you -know the doors were locked again, and five of us burned alive?" - -[Illustration: "Didn't you know about the fire in our factory?"] - -I hadn't known. That seemed to me so awful. There I was, fed and clothed -and not worrying about rent, and here this thing had happened, and I nor -none of us hadn't even heard of it. Miss Manners and Miss Spot didn't -like us to read the newspapers too much. - -"It broke out in the pressroom," Rose said. "That girl that was feeding -your old press--they never even found her." - -"Oh, Rose," I said. "Rose, Rose!" And when I could I asked her what it -was that she had come wanting me to do. - -She made a little tired motion. "It ain't only the fire," she said. -"Things have got worse with us. We've got three times the fines. Since -they've stopped locking the doors, they make us be searched every night, -and the new forewoman--she's fierce. And we can't get the girls -interested. They say it ain't no use to try. We want to try to have one -more meeting to show 'em there is some use. And we thought, mebbe--we -knew you could make 'em see, Cosma. If you'd come and talk to 'em." - -"When would it be?" I asked her. - -"They've called the meeting for to-morrow night," she told me. - -"To-morrow!" I said. "Oh, Rose--no, then I can't. I'm going out of town -to-night, for two days, up the Hudson...." - -I stopped. She got up and came to fasten my sash for me. - -"I thought mebbe you couldn't," she said; "but it was worth trying." - -"Have it next week," I said. "Have the meeting then." - -But they had postponed once--some one, Rose said, had "peached" to the -forewoman. For to-morrow night the men had loaned them a hall. She bent -to my sash. I could see her in my glass. I was ashamed. - -She told me what had come to the girls--marriage, promotion, disgrace. -Two of them had disappeared. - -"I'm so sorry," I kept on saying. Then the maid came to tell me the -motor was there. I put on my cloak with the fur and the bright lining. -It had made me feel magnificent and happy. With Rose there, I felt all -different. - -She slipped away and went out in the dark. The light was on in the -limousine. Mr. Gerald came running up the steps for me. Antoinette was -there already. I went down and got in. There was nothing else to do. - -The drive curved back around the dormitory, and so to the street again. -As we came out on the roadway, we passed Rose, walking. - -I thought: "She's walking till the street-car comes." But I knew it was -far more likely that she was walking all the way to her room. - -At the Dudleys' studio I forgot Rose for a little while. It was a great -dark room with bright colors and dim lamps. Mrs. Dudley had on a dress -of leopard skins, with a pointed crown on her head. There were twenty or -more there, and among them "Baddy" Dudley. From the minute I came in the -room he came and sat beside me. He was big and ugly, but there was -something about him that made you forget all the other men in the room. - -It was a wonderful dinner. When coffee came, the lights flashed up, a -curtain was lifted, and Mrs. Dudley danced. The lights rose and fell as -she danced, and with them the music. Every one broke into a low humming -with the music. Then she sank down, and the lights went out, and we sat -in the dark until she came back to dance again. "I shall never be -happy," said Mr. Dudley as we sat so, "until I see you dance, in a -costume which I shall design for you." - -"Will you dance with me?" I asked him. That was the most fun--that I -could think of things to say, just the way Lena Curtsy used to--only -now they were never the kind that made anybody look shocked. - -"Make the appointment in the Fiji Islands or in Fez," he said; "and -there I will be." - -Mr. Gerald came and sat down beside me. - -"Oh, very well, Massy--to the knife," says Mr. Dudley. - -It was half after nine when we left for the opera. The second act had -begun, which seemed to me a wicked waste of tickets. But even then Mr. -Gerald had no intention of listening. He sat beside me and talked. - -"Cosma," he said, "I'm about ten times as miserable as usual to-night. -Can't you say something." - -I said, "Tell me: Is that what they call a minor? Because I want those -for my heaven." - -"I want you for my heaven," Mr. Gerald observed. "Dear, I'm terribly in -earnest. Don't make me run a race with that bally ass." - -"Don't race," I said. "Listen." - -"I am listening," said Gerald, "to hear what you will say." - -All at once it flashed over me: Cosma Wakely, from a farm near -Katytown! Here I was, loving my new life and longing to keep it up. - -"You're right where you belong," he went on, "looking just as you look -now. But you do need me, you know, to complete the picture." - -It was true. I did belong where I was. By a miracle I had got there. Why -was I hesitating to stay? If it had been Lena Curtsy, or Rose, I -couldn't imagine them feeling as if all this belonged to them. It was -true. There must be these distinctions. Why should I not accept what had -come? And then help the girls--help Father and Mother. Think of the good -I could do as Gerald's wife.... - -The music died, just like something alive. The curtain went down. And in -the midst of all the applause, and the silly bowing on the stage, and -the chatter in the box, I looked in the box next to ours. And there sat -John Ember. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -He was sitting very near me, leaning his arm on the velvet rail which -divided the boxes. He was looking at the stage. Two young girls and a -very beautiful woman, beautifully dressed, were with him. Save for his -formal dress, he looked exactly as he looked when I had said good-by to -him in Twiney's pasture. - -I was terrified for fear he should turn and look at me. I longed, as I -had never longed for anything, to have him turn and look. I shrank back -lest I should find that I must speak to him. I was wild with the wish to -lean and speak his name. What if he had forgotten? Not until I caught -the lift of his brow as he turned, the line of his chin, the touch of -his hand, already familiar, to his forehead, did I know how well I had -remembered. And then, abruptly, I was shot through with a sweetness and -a pride: The time had come! I could meet him as I had dreamed of -meeting him, speak to him as I had hoped sometime to speak to him, as -some one a little within his world.... - -"The bally trouble with opera--" Gerald was beginning. - -"Please, please!" I said. "You talked right through that act, Gerald. -Let me sit still now!" - -Mr. Ember, his face turned somewhat toward the house, was talking to the -woman beside him. - -" ... the new day," he said. "Such a place as this gives one hope. For -all the folly of it, some do care. Here is music--a good deal -segregated, in a place apart, for folk to come and participate. And they -come--by jove, you know, they come!" - -The woman said something which I did not hear. - -"Not as pure an example as a symphony concert," he said, "no. There they -demand nothing--no accessories, no deception, no laughter--even no -story! That is music, pure and undefiled, and, it seems to me, really -socialized. There participation is complete, with no interventions. I -tell you we're coming on! Any day now, the drama may do the same thing!" - -He listened to the woman again, and nodded, without looking at her. That -made me think of a new wonder--of what it would be to have him -understand one like that. - -"Ah, yes," he said, "there's the heartbreak. God knows how long it will -be before these things will be for more than the few. This whole -thing,"--his arm went out toward the house--"and us with it, are sitting -on the chests of the rest of them. And that isn't so bad, bad as it is. -The worst is that we don't even know it." - -"But what is one to do?" she cried--her voice was so eager that I caught -some of what she said. "What can one do?" - -"Find your corner and dig like a devil," he said. "I suppose I should -say go at it like a god. Only we don't seem to know how to do -that--yet." - -He sat silent for a minute, looking over the house. - -"We don't even half know that the other fellow is here," he said. "The -isolation in audiences is frightful. Look at us now--we don't even guess -we're all on the same job." He laughed. "We need to unionize!" - -Some one else came to their box and joined them. He rose, moved away, -talked with them all. Then he came to his place again, very near me, and -sat silent while the others talked. I could see his head against the -velvet stage curtain, and his fine clear profile. But now it was as if I -were looking at him down a measureless distance. - -I looked down at my yellow dress and my yellow slippers, at my hands -that were manicured under my long gloves. I thought of the things they -had taught me, about moving and speaking and eating. I thought how proud -I was that I had made myself different. And to-night, when I first saw -him in that box, it was as if I had come running to him, like a little -child with a few bangles--and I had thought I could meet him now, almost -like an equal. - -And I saw now that the girl who had sat there outside the Katytown inn -and had eaten her peaches, and had tried to flirt with him, wasn't much -farther away from him--not much farther away--than I was, there in the -opera box in my yellow dress, with a year of school behind me. And my -only chance to help in all this that he understood and lived was to go -with Rose; and I had let that slip, so that I could come here and show -off how well I looked, with my words--and my hair--done different. - -The place where he lived every day of his life was a place that I had -never gone in or guessed or dreamed could be. He was living for some -other reason than I had ever found out about. And I had thought that I -was almost ready to see him _now_! - -As far as I could, I drew back toward the partition, out of his possible -sight. But I heard the last act as I had never heard music -before--because I heard it as he was hearing it, as we all over the -house might have been listening to it. I listened with him. And all the -anguish and striving in the world were in the music and the music's way -of trying to make this clear. It said it so plain that I wondered all of -us didn't stand up in our places and "go at it like gods." - -Before the curtain, and in the high moment of the act, they came for us. -Mrs. Dudley liked to go down and give her carriage number early, -especially when a supper was on. So we went, and I left him there. I saw -him last against the crude setting of a prison, with the music -remembering back to what it had been saying long before. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -There is nothing more wonderful in the world than the minute when all -that you have always been seeing begins to look like something else. It -happened to me when I sat down at our table at the Ritz-Carlton, a table -which had been reserved for us and was set with orchids and had four -waiters, like moons. - -I sat between Gerald and Mr. Baddy Dudley. - -I looked up at Gerald, and I thought, "You're very kind. I owe you a -great deal. But is _this_ the way you are? Were you like this all the -time?" - -Then I looked up at Mr. Baddy Dudley. I wanted to say to him: "Ugh! -You're all locked up in your body, and you can't drop it away. Why -didn't you tell me?" - -Across the table was Mrs. Dudley, in flesh-pink and pearls. I thought of -her dancing, in the leopard skin and the pointed crown; and it seemed -to me that she was dead, a long time ago, and here she was, and she -didn't dream it herself. - -Here and there were the others; they seemed to fill the table with their -high voices and their tip-top speech and their strong, big white -shoulders. They were so kind--but I wondered if otherwise they had ever -been born at all, and what made them think that they had? - -Of them all, Antoinette was the best, because she was just -sketched--yet. She could rub herself out and do it nearly all over -again; and something about her looked anxious and hopeful, and as if it -was waiting to see if that wasn't what she would do. - -Then I tried to look myself in the face. And it seemed to me as if I -didn't find any of me there at all. - -I ate what they brought me; I answered what they said to me. But all the -time they were all as far off as the other tables of folk, and the -waiters, whom I didn't know at all. And all the while I looked around -the big white room, and up at the oval of the ceiling, and--"This whole -thing, and us with it, is sitting on the chests of the rest of them," I -thought. I wondered about Rose. If she walked, she must have got home -about the time I got to the opera. Rose! She was real, and she was -awake. She had come all that way to get me to help her to wake the rest. -Was that what he meant by digging like a devil? - -When we left the hotel, toward two o'clock, there was nothing to do but -to motor on with the rest. When we reached the Massys', the time was -already still, because it expected morning. The Dudleys and Mr. Baddy -Dudley had come up with us. When at last I got the window open in my -room, I was in time to see a little lift of gray in the sky beyond the -line of trees on the terrace. - -"The new day," I said. "The new day. Cosma Wakely, have you got enough -backbone in you to stand up to it?" - -It was surprising how little backbone it took the next afternoon. What -I had to do was what I wanted to do. All the forenoon, no one was -stirring. It was eleven before coffee came to our rooms. I had heard Mr. -Dudley calling a dog somewhere about, so I had kept to my room for fear -of meeting him. At one o'clock there were guests for luncheon. When they -started back to town I told Antoinette that I wanted to go with them. I -meant to get to Rose's meeting. - -"Nonsense!" she said. "Have you forgotten dinner? And the dancing?" - -I said that I was worried about my examinations, and that I wanted to -get back. When I first came to the Massys' I would have told them the -truth. - -The long ride down was like a still hand laid on something beating. I -liked being alone as much as once I had dreaded it. - -We had been late in setting off. It was almost six o'clock when I -reached the school. When I had eaten and dressed and was on my way to -the hall, it was already long past the time that Rose had named for the -meeting. - -All the girls were in their seats. There were only Rose and one or two -more on the platform. The hall was low and smoky. The girls were nervous -about the doors, and questioned everybody that came in. The girl at the -door began to question me when I went in, but Rose saw me. - -"Let her come in," she called out. "She's our next speaker!" - -And when I heard the ring in her voice, and saw her face and felt her -hand close on mine, and knew how glad she was that I had come, I was -happy. Happier than I had ever once been at the Massys'. - -I went right up on the platform. And my head and my heart had never been -so full of things to say. And the girls listened. - -Did you ever face a roomful of girls who work in a factory? Any factory? -But especially in a factory where, instead of treating them like one -side of the business, the owners treat them like necessary evils? You -wouldn't ever have supposed that the heads of the Carney factory were -dependent the least bit on the girls who did the work for them. You'd -have thought that it was just money and machinery and the buildings that -did the work, and that the girls were being let work for a kindness. I -never could understand it. When the business needed more money, the -owners gave it to it. When the machinery needed oil or repairs or new -parts, it got them. When the buildings had to have improvements, they -got them. But when the girls needed more light or air or wages or -shorter hours or a cleaner place to be, or better safety, they just got -laughed at and rowed at and told to learn their places, or not told -anything at all. And more girls come, younger, fresher, that didn't need -things. - -"If I was only my machine," I had heard Rose say that night, "I'd have -plenty of oil and wool and the right shuttles. But I'm nothing but the -operator, and the machine has the best care. And if there comes a -fire--_the machinery is insured_. But we ain't." - -I have not much remembrance of what I said to the girls that night. -There must have been a hundred of them in the hall. And I know that as -I stood there, looking into their faces, knowing them as I knew them, -with their striving for a life like other folks, there--suddenly ringed -round them--I saw the double tier of boxes of the night before, and I -heard his voice: - -" ... This whole place here, and we with them, are on the chests of the -others." - -I had no bitterness. But I had the extreme of consciousness that I had -ever reached--not of myself, but of all of us, and of the need of -helping on our common growth. They were to stand together, inviolably -together, for the fostering of that growth, I told them. An injury to -one was an injury to them all--because they were together. And the -employers of whom they made their demands were no enemies, but victims, -too, who must be helped to see, by us who happen to have had the good -fortune to be able to see the need first. - -I remember how I ended. I heard myself saying it as if it were some one -else speaking: - -"I'm with you. You must let me plan with you. But I can't plan with a -few of you, when the rest don't care. I want you all." - -When the evening was over, and I had found those I knew and met those -whom I didn't know, and had set down my name with the list that grew -before the door, made up of those who were willing "not to fight, but to -help," I stood for a minute in the lower hallway with Rose. - -"Oh, Cosma," she said, "I've got to tell you something. I done you dead -wrong. I thought last night that you'd gone over--that you didn't care -any more." - -"I didn't," I said. "It _had_ got me--the thing that gets folks." - -Next day I rehearsed my oration for the Savage Prize contest. When I'd -finished, Miss Spot told me that I needn't practise it any more before -her--just to say it over in my room through the three days until the -contest was to take place. - -"You deliver it as well as I could myself, Cosma," she said. - -So I walked back to my room, tore up my oration, and set to work to -write another. My head and my heart were full of what that other was to -be. I had been beating and pricking with it all night long after the -meeting. - -Savage Prize Day was a great day at the school. We were given engraved -invitations to send out. I sent mine to Mrs. Bingy and Rose and the -girls in the factory. I knew they couldn't come; but I knew, too, they'd -like getting something engraved. Only it happened that not only Mrs. -Bingy came--Rose and the girls came, too. Handed to them with their pay -envelope had been the notice to quit. Somebody had told the -superintendent about that meeting. Six of the leaders were let out. I -saw them all sitting there when I got up on the platform. And they gave -me strength, there in all that lot of well-dressed, soft-voiced folks. -They were dear people, too. Only they were dear, different. And they -didn't understand anything whatever about life, the way Mrs. Bingy and -Rose and I did. And that wasn't those folks' fault either. But they -seemed to take credit for it. - -Antoinette had an oration. Hers was on "Our Boat Is Launched; But -Where's the Shore?" It told about how to do. It said everybody should be -successful with hard work. It said that industry is the best policy and -bound to win. It said that America is the land where all who will only -work hard enough may have any position they like. It said that -everything is possible. Everybody enjoyed Antoinette's oration. She had -some lovely roses and violets, and all her relatives sat looking so -pleased. Her father had promised her a diamond pendant, if she got the -prize. - -There was another on "Evolution." She said we should be patient and not -hurry things, because short-cuts wasn't evolution. I wondered what made -her take it for granted God is so slow. But I liked the way her -bracelets tinkled when she raised her arm, and I think she did, too. - -Then it was my turn. I hadn't said anything to Miss Spot about changing -my oration. I thought if I could do it once to please them, I could do -it again. I worked hard on mine, because the prize was a hundred -dollars; and if Mrs. Carney wouldn't take it, I wanted it for Rose and -the girls. I thought Miss Spot would be pleased to think I did it -without any rehearsing. I imagined how she would tell visitors about it, -during ice-cream. - -I didn't keep a copy of it, but some of it was like this: - - - I decided to write about "Growing," because I think that growing is - the most important thing in the world. I believe that this is what - we are for. But some ways to grow aren't so important as others. - - For example, I was born on a farm near a little town. At first my - body grew, but not my mind. Only through district school. Then it - stopped and waited for something to happen--going away, getting - married, et cetera. Soon I met somebody who showed me that my mind - must keep on growing. - - It seems queer, but nobody had ever said anything to me about - growing. All that they said to me was about "behaving." And - especially about doing as I was told. - - Then I came to the city and I worked in a factory. Right away I - found out that there the last thing they thought about was anybody - growing. They thought chiefly about hurrying. Not a word was ever - said about growing. And yet, I suppose, all the time that was our - chief business. - - One day I went to the Museum, and I saw a large white statue of - Apollo Belvedere. The other people there seemed to know about him. - I didn't know about him, or any of the rest of the things; and I - went outside and cried. How was I to get to know, when nobody ever - said anything to me about him? Or about any of the things I didn't - know. I wasn't with people who knew things I didn't know. Or who - knew anything about growing. - - Then I came to this school. I've been here and I've learned a great - deal. Countries and capitals and what is shipped and how high the - mountains are, and how to act and speak and eat. I know that you - have to have all these. But I am writing about some education that - shows you how to be on account of what life is. And about how to - arrange education so that every one can have it, and not some of us - girls have it, and some of us not have anything but the - machines.... - - -I hadn't meant to say much about this. But all of a sudden,--while I -stood there speaking to that dressed-up roomful, with all the girls down -in front soft and white, and taken care of and promised diamond -pendants, it come over me--the difference between them and Rose and the -girls there on the back seats. And before I knew I was going to, I began -to get outside my oration as I planned it, and to talk about those -girls, and about where did their chance come in.... And I finished by -begging these girls here, that had every chance to grow, to do something -for the other girls that didn't have a chance to grow and never would -have a chance. - -"I don't know why you have it and why they don't," I said. "Maybe when -we grow up and get out in the world we'll understand that better. But it -can't be right the way it is. And can't we help them?" - -Some clapped their hands when I was done. There was another oration on -"Success," and one on "Opportunity," and then came the judges' decision. - -It was a big disappointment. I thought the other orations were so -wishy-washy, it didn't seem possible mine could have been any more so. -But it must have been, because only one of the judges voted for me. He -said something about "not so much subject matter as originality of -thought." The other two judges voted for Antoinette. That night, by -special delivery, she got her diamond pendant. - -Rose wrote a note on the back of her program. "Oh, Cosma, this is the -most wonderful thing that ever happened to the girls. I never knew -anybody else ever heard about us or cared about us. We'll never forget." - -When I got back to the dormitory, somebody was waiting for me in the -reception-room, and it was Gerald. He drew me over to a window, talking -all the way. - -"Cosma," he said, "by jove, I never heard anything like that. I say--how -did you ever get them to let you do it?... They'd never seen it? -Rich--_rich_! You sweet dove of an anarchist, you--" - -"Don't Gerald," I said. - -"Ripping," said he, "simply ripping! I never saw anything so beautiful -as you before all that raft. You looked like the well-known angels, -Cosma. And you ought to see my portrait of you now! You dear!" - -"Don't, Gerald," I said. - -He stared at me. "I say--you aren't taking to heart that miserable -hundred dollars! Cosma dearest! Oh, I'm mad about you ... this June, ... -this June--" - -"Please, please, Gerald," I said. "Don't you see? Those girls there -to-day. They're your sort and your people's sort. I'm not that...." - -He set himself to explain something to me. I could see it in his sudden -attitude. "Look here, Cosma," he said; "don't you understand the joy it -would be for a man to have a hand in training the girl he wants to have -for his wife?" At that, I looked at him with attention. "Let me be," he -went on, "your teacher, lover, husband. Gad, think what it will be to -have the shaping of the woman you will make! Can't you understand a man -being mad about that?" - -I answered him very carefully. "A man, maybe. But not the woman." - -"What?" said Gerald blankly. - -"I'll make myself," I said. "And then maybe I'll pick out a man who has -made himself. And if we love each other, we'll marry." - -"But," he said, "the sweetness of having you fit, day after day, into -the dream that I have of what you are going to be--" - -So then I told him. "Gerald," I said, "I wasn't meant to live your life. -I've got to find my job in the world--whatever that is. I've got to get -away from you--from you all--from everybody, Gerald!" - -"Good heavens!" he said. "Cosma, you're tired--you're nervous--" - -I looked at him quite calmly. "If," I said, "when I state some -conviction of mine, any man ever tells me again that I'm nervous, I'll -tell him he's--he's _drunk_. There's just as much sense in it." - -I gave him both my hands. "Gerald," I said, "you dear man, your life -isn't my life. I don't want it to be my life. That's all." - -Afterward, when I went up-stairs, with that peculiar, heavy lonesomeness -that comes from the withdrawal of this particular interest in this -particular way, I wondered if the life I was planning was made up of -such withdrawals, such hurts, such vacancies. - -And then I remembered the way I had felt when I walked home from the -meeting that Sunday night; and it seemed to me there are ways of -happiness in the world beside which one can hardly count some of the -ways of pleasure that one calls happiness now. - -In my room that night I found a parcel. It was roughly wrapped in paper -that had been used before. From it fell a white scarf and a paper. - - - "DEAR COSSY (the letter was written in pencil) I am going to send - you this whether you get the prize or whether you don't. If you - didn't get it, I guess you need the present worse. It's the nubia I - wore on my wedding trip. I sha'n't want it any more. I enclose one - dollar and your Pa sends one dollar to get you something with for - yourself. With love, - - "MA. - - "P. S. My one dollar is egg money, so it's my own it ain't from him - I raised them." - - -Suddenly, as I read, there came over me the first real longing that I -had ever had in my life for Katytown, and for home. - -One more incident belonged to Savage Prize Oration Day. - -Neither Miss Manners nor Miss Spot said anything to me about my oration. -But in commencement week Mrs. Carney came in to see me. - -"Cosma," she said, "I have a letter here which I must show you." - -I read the letter. It said: - - - "Dear Mrs. Carney: - - "After due consideration we deem it advisable to inform you that in - our judgment the spirit and attitude of Cosma Wakely are not in - conformity with the spirit of our school. - - "We have ever striven to maintain here an attitude of sweetness and - light, and to exclude everything of a nature disturbing to young - ladies of immature mind. Cosma is not only opinionated, but her - knowledge and experience are out of harmony with the knowledge and - experience of our clientèle. We have regretfully concluded to - suggest to you, therefore, that she be entered elsewhere to - complete her course. - - "Thanking you, my dear Mrs. Carney, we beg to remain, - - "Respectfully yours, - "MATILDA MANNERS, - "EMILY SPOT." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -I drop five years--so much in the living, so little in the retrospect! - -Upon that time I entered with one thought: The university. At the school -I had always been ahead of my class, a meager enough accomplishment -there. I had browsed through the books of the third- and fourth-year -girls, glad that I found so little that I could not have mastered then. -Now, at Mrs. Carney's suggestion and with her help, I took some -tutoring; and, what with overwork and summer sessions and entering -"special" once more, I made the university, and, toward the close of my -fifth year, was nearing my graduation. A part of my expenses I had paid -myself. And how did I do that? By making lace for Mrs. Keddie Bingy! - -Life is so wonderful that it makes you afraid, and it makes you glad, -and it makes you sure. - -In the first year after I left Miss Spot and Miss Manners, I read in one -of the papers that John Ember had gone to China on an expedition which -was to spend two years in the interior. I wouldn't have believed that -the purpose could have dropped so completely out of everything--school, -town, life, I myself, became something different. Until then I had not -realized how much I had been living in the thought that I was somewhere -near him; that any day I might see him in the street, in the cars, -anywhere. It was hard to get used to knowing that somebody coming down -at the far end of the street could not possibly be he; that no list of -names in the paper could have his name. - -But just as, that first morning, I knew that he wouldn't want me to give -up and cry, so now I knew that I had to go ahead anyway, and do the best -I could. It was what he would have wanted. And I had only just begun to -make myself different. I had only just shown myself how much there was, -really, to be different about. - -It was wanting to see him so much that made me take out my book again, -after a long lapse, and read it over. The first pages were just as I -wrote them, on the wrapping-paper that came around the boys' overalls. -Then there were the sheets of manila paper that I had bought at the drug -store near the first little room that Mrs. Bingy and I took--I remember -how I had got up early and walked to the factory one morning to save the -nickel for the paper. Then a few pages that I had made at the school on -empty theme books; and some more on the Massys' guest paper, gray with -lavender lining and a Paris maker's name. Now I went on writing my book -with a typewriter that I was learning to use, since a man on Mrs. -Bingy's floor let me borrow his machine when he went out in the -mornings. My whole history was in those different kinds of paper in my -book. - -Those typewritten pages are of interest chiefly to myself. They are like -the thirty pages that I threw away because they told only about my -going from one factory to another. Only now the typewritten pages were -not about events at all, but about the things that went on in me. And -those I can sum up in a few words: For the important thing is that in -those pages I was recording my growing understanding of something which -Rose, out of her sordid living, had done so much to teach me: that my -life was not important just because it was the life of Cosma Wakely -alone, but it was important in proportion as it saw itself a part of the -life about it--the life of school, of working women and men, of all men -and women, of all beings. I began to wonder not so much how I could make -my own individual "success," whatever that means, as how I could take my -place in the task that we're all doing together--and of finding out what -that task is. - -That, in short, is what those years meant to me. The incidents do not so -much matter. Nobody gets this understanding in the way that any one else -gets it. It is the individual quest, the individual revelation. -Experience, education, love, the mere wear and tear of living, all go -toward this understanding. Most of all, love. I think that for me the -university and the entire faculty were only auxiliary lights to the -light that shone on me, over seas and lands, from the interior of China! - -Of all the wonder learned by loving, no wonder is more exquisite than -the magic by which one absent becomes a living presence. This man had so -established himself before me that it seemed to me I knew his judgments. -The simplicity of this new friend of mine, the mental honesty of that -one, the accuracy of a third who made me careful of my facts--these John -Ember would approve. I always knew. The self-centering or pretense of -others; I knew how he would smile at these, shrug at them, but never -despise them, because of his tender understanding of all life. Everybody -with whom I was thrown who was less developed than I, I understood -because I had been Cossy Wakely. Every one who was more developed, I -tried passionately to understand. These, and books, plays, music, -"society's" attempt to amuse itself, Rose and the factory, the whole -panorama of my life passed every day before the still tribunal of this -one man, who knew nothing about them. - -The two years' absence of the expedition to China lengthened to three -years, and it was well toward the close of the fourth year when Mrs. -Carney told me he might be turning home. But the summer and autumn -passed, and I heard nothing more. January came, and I was within a few -months of graduation. - -Then something happened which abruptly tied up the present to my old -life. - -I came home from class one afternoon to Mrs. Bingy's flat and found on -the table a letter for me. It was from Luke, in Katytown. - - - "DEAR COSSY [the letter said], I hate to ask you to do something, - but you're the only one. Lena's gone.... She left this letter for - me. I send it so you'll know. And she's gone. It says she's in the - city. I ain't got the money to go there with. Cossy, could you find - her? I thought maybe you could find her. She's got some folks there - and I think maybe she'll go there. It's an awful thing. I hate to - ask you but you are the only one please answer. - - LUKE." - - -The address which he sent me was far uptown, and it took me over to a -row of tenements near the East River. It was dark when I left the subway -station. And when I found the street at last it smelled worse than the -Katytown alleys in summer. - -In the doorway of what I thought was the number I was looking for, a man -and a woman were standing. I asked if this was the address I wanted, and -the woman answered that it was. - -"Isn't it Lena?" I said. - -"What do you want?" she asked. - -"It's Cossy," I answered. - -"Yes, I know. What do you want?" she asked again. - -I told her that I would wait up-stairs for her, and then the man went -away, and she came with me. We climbed the stairs and went along a hall -to a parlor that smelled of damp upholstery. She lighted a high central -gas-jet that flared without a burner. - -She had always been pretty, and she was that now, though her face had -lines made by scowling. Her neck and shoulders and breast were almost -uncovered, because her waist was so thin and so low-cut. Her little arms -were bare from above the elbow, and her little features looked still -smaller under a bright irregular turban with a feather like a long -sword. - -"Luke asked me to find you," I said. "He said he didn't have the money -to come himself." - -"Poor Luke," said Lena unexpectedly. "He's got the worst of it. But I -can't help it." - -"You've just come up for a little while, though, haven't you?" I asked -her. "And then you're going back?" - -She shrugged, and all the bones and cords of her neck and chest stood -out. The shadow of her feather kept running over her face, like a knife -blade. - -"What's the use of your talking like the preacher?" she said. "You got -out yourself." - -"Yes," I said, "but--" - -"You knew before and I didn't know till after," she added. "That's all. -I couldn't stand it, either." - -I sat still, wondering what to say. - -"We moved in there with his mother and father," Lena said. "His father -was good to me; but he was sick and just one more to take care of. His -mother--well, I know it was hard for her, but she was bound I should do -everything her way. She was a grand good housekeeper--and I ain't. I -hate it. She got the rheumatism and sat in her chair all day and told me -how. I tell you I couldn't stand it--" - -Her voice got shrill, and I thought she was going to cry. But she just -threw back her head and looked at me. - -"And now in seven months," she said, "something else. That was the last -straw. I says now I'd never get out. I've come up here for the last good -time I may ever have. If Luke won't take me back, he needn't. I don't -care what becomes of me anyway." - -"Oh, Lena," I said. - -"Don't you go giving yourself airs," she said. "You got away. We've -heard about your school and your smartness. But supposin' you hadn't. Do -you think you'd have stayed in Luke's mother's kitchen slavin'?" - -"No, Lena," I said. "I honestly don't think I would." - -The gas without any burner flickered over the big-figured carpets and -chairs and table cover, the mussy paper flowers and the rusty gas stove -and the crayon portraits. I almost felt as if I were there in Lena's -place. - -"I s'pose, though, you're goin' to tell me to go back," she said. "Well, -best spare your breath." - -It came to me what I had to do, just as simply as things almost always -come. - -"I'm not going to tell you any such thing," I said. "I wondered if you -wouldn't come down and stay with Mrs. Bingy and me while you're here. -We've got an extra cot." - -She tossed her head. "You're laughing at me," she said. - -"No," I said, "I want you. So would Mrs. Bingy." - -When she understood, something seemed to go out of her. She shrank down -in the chair, and that look of hers went away from her. - -"I'd love to," she said. "Oh, Cossy--I thought when I got here things'd -be different. But I've been here four days, and I ain't really had any -fun here either!" - -I told her to get her things ready, and when she went to tell her -mother's aunt, with whom she was staying, her aunt came in and made us -both have some supper first. The table was in the kitchen, and the aunt -was cooking flap-jacks over the stove. Her husband was a tunnel man, and -so was his son. There were two girls younger than Lena; one of them was -ticket-seller in a motion-picture house, and one of them was "at home." - -"Don't you work?" I said to her. - -"Hessie's going to be married," said her mother, proud and final. - -"Believe me, she'd better get a job instead," said Lena--and I saw the -girl who was ticket-seller turn a puzzled face to her, but the -bride-to-be laughed. I was glad that I was going to take Lena away from -them. Whatever is to be learned by women, it seems to me that they -should never have for teacher a bitter woman, however wise. - -Lena had felt a good deal--I could see that; but she knew nothing. To -her, her own case was just one isolated case, and due to her bad luck. -She had no idea that she was working at a problem, any more than Mrs. -Bingy and I had when we left Katytown. Or any more than her mother's -aunt, who was thick and flabby and bothered about too much saleratus in -the flap-jacks. I thought of the difference between Lena and Rose. -They'd got something so different out of a hard life. Rose felt hers for -all women; but Lena felt hers for just Lena. - -When we got back to the flat, Mrs. Bingy had the gas log burning and she -was working at her lace. The child was awake, and playing about. Lena -stood in the passage door and looked. We had some plain dark rugs and a -few pieces of willow furniture that we had bought on the instalment -plan. I had made some flowered paper shades for the lights. Mrs. Carney -had given me one lovely colored print. I had my school-books and some -library books on the shelves. And we had a red couch cover Mrs. Bingy -had bought--"shut her eyes and bought," she said. - -"Oh, ain't it nice?" Lena said. - -"Luck sakes," said Mrs. Bingy. "If it ain't Lena-Curtsey-that-was. Well, -if here ain't the whole neighborhood!" - -I followed Lena into my little bedroom that night. - -"Lena," I said, "does Luke know what you told me?" - -She shook her head. - -"Wouldn't you better write and tell him?" I asked. "And tell him just -why you want to get away for a while?" - -"He'd think I was crazy," she answered. "They'd talk it over. His ma'd -say I was a wicked woman--and I donno but what I am. But I will be crazy -if I stay stuck there in that kitchen all those months--" - -She began to cry. I understood that the best thing to do was to let her -stay here quietly with us and give her whatever little pleasure we -could. - -She let me write to Luke and tell him that she was going to visit us for -a while. I told her I would take her to a school play the next night, -and we looked over her things to decide what she was to wear. - -"Lord, Cossy," she said, "it's been months since I've went to bed -thinking I was going to have any fun the next day." - -Afterward I found Mrs. Bingy sitting with her head on her hand. - -"I wonder," she said, "if I done it." - -"What, Mrs. Bingy?" I asked. - -"When any woman in Katytown leaves her husband, I'll always think that -if I hadn't gone, maybe----" - -"Mrs. Bingy," I said, "suppose you had stayed. Either he'd have murdered -you and the baby, too, maybe, or else you might have had another child -or two--with a drunken brute for a father. If you've helped anybody like -you to get away, you be glad!" - -"I don't know what to make of you sometimes, Cossy," she said. -"Sometimes what you say sounds so nice I bet it's wicked." - -She took the child, gathered him up with a long sweep of her arm and -tossed him, with one arm, on her shoulder. She was huge and brown, as -she used to be; but now her life had rounded out her gauntness, and she -looked fed and rested and peaceful. To see her in the little -sitting-room of the flat, busy and happy and cheerful, was like seeing -her soul with another body, or her body with another soul, or both. I -never got over the wonder of it. - -The school play gave Lena nothing of what she pathetically called "fun." -And when she went with me to the factory dances, she turned up her nose -at the men, not one of whom was, she said, a "dresser." She told me that -she hated to be with anybody who knew more than she did. In a fortnight -she went back to Luke's aunt to stay, I suspected, as long as her small -money held out at the motion-picture shows. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It was just before Lena left us that Mrs. Carney telephoned one day for -me to come to her house to dinner on the following night. "He's back!" I -said to myself as I hung up the receiver; for by now Mrs. Carney had -guessed something of John Ember's place in my life, though we had never -spoken of it. But he was not back, now, any more than he had been all -the other times that I had leaped at the hope, in these three years. It -was some one else who had come back. - -Mr. Arthur Carney was in Europe that year, and I went there that night -without thinking that there was such a person as he in the world, so -long had I forgotten his existence. But Mrs. Carney told me that she had -had, the day before, a telegram to say that he had landed in New York -and would be at home by the end of the week. While we were waiting for -dinner to be announced, he unexpectedly appeared in her drawing-room. -And he said to her, before all those people: - -"You see, my dear, I've come to surprise you. I've come to see how well -you amuse yourself while I am away." - -He said that he would go in to dinner with us just as he was. He was -welcomed by everybody, and, of course, Mrs. Carney introduced him to me. -She could have had no better answer to what he had just said to her. - -"May I present my husband, Miss Wakely?" she said. "Arthur, she was once -at the factory. You may remember----" - -He had grown stouter, and his face was pink, and his head was pink -through his light hair. He carried a glass and stared at me through it, -and then he dropped his glass and said: - -"My word, you know. Then we've met before, we two." - -"I've never had the pleasure of really meeting you, Mr. Carney," I said. - -"You parted from me anyway. I remember that," he said. And presently he -came back to where I was. "Here's my partner, please, madame," he said -to Mrs. Carney. - -So I sat beside him. Of course I wasn't afraid of him any more and I -wasn't really annoyed by him. I could just study him now. And I thought: -"If only every girl whom a man follows, as you followed me, could just -study him--like a specimen." - -"That was a devilish clever trick you played on me, you know," he said, -when we were seated. "How'd you come to think of it?" - -I said: "That was easy. I could think of it again." - -"You could, could you?" said he. "Well, what I want to know is what -you're doing here?" - -"Mrs. Carney must tell you that," I reminded him. - -He stared at me. "You're a cool one," he said. "Come, aren't you going -to tell me something about yourself? Why, I must be just about the first -friend you had in this little old town." - -I had been wondering if I dare say some of all that was in my mind, and -I concluded that I did dare--rather than hear all that was in his. So I -said: - -"Mr. Carney, you have been asking me some questions. Now I wonder if I -may ask you some?" - -"Sure," he said. "Come ahead. I'd be flattered to get even that much -interest out of you." - -"It's something I've thought a good deal about," I told him, "and hardly -anybody can ever have asked about it, first hand. But you must know, and -you could tell me." - -"I'll tell you anything you want to know," he said. "Even how much I -still think of you." - -It was hard to keep my temper, but I did, because I really wanted to -know. Every woman must want to know, who's been through it. - -"I wish you'd tell me," I said, "just how a man figures everything out -for himself, when he begins to hunt down a girl--as you hunted me?" - -He stared again, and then he burst out laughing. - -"Bless you," he said, "he doesn't figure. He just feels." - -"But now, think," I urged. "After all, you have brains--" - -"Many, many thanks, little one," he said. - -"--and sometimes you must use them. In those days, didn't you honestly -care what became of me? Didn't you think about that at all?" - -"You can bet I did," he said. "Didn't I make it fairly clear what I -wanted to become of you?" - -I wondered whether I could go on. But I felt as if I must--because here -was something that is one of the big puzzles of the world. - -"But after?" I said. "After?" - -He shrugged. - -"I wasn't borrowing trouble, you understand?" he said. - -"No," I told him. "No. You were just piling it up for me--that was all. -Now see here: In these five years I've had school as I wanted to have -then. I know more. I'm better worth while. I'm better able to take my -place among human beings. I've begun to grow--as people were meant to -grow. Truly--were you willing to take away from me every chance of -that--and perhaps to see me thrown on the scrap-heap--just to get what -you wanted?" - -He looked at me, and then around his table, where his wife's twenty -guests were sitting--well-bred, charming folk, all of them. - -"My God," he said, "what a funny dinner-table conversation." - -"Isn't it?" I agreed. "These things are usually just done--they aren't -very often said. But I wish that you could tell me. I should think you'd -be interested yourself. Don't you see that we've got a quite unusual -chance to run this thing down?" - -For the first time I saw in his eyes a look of real intelligence--the -sort of intelligence that he must have used with other men, in -business, in politics, in general talk. For the first time he seemed to -me not just a male, but a human being. - -"Seriously," he said gravely, "I don't suppose that one man in ten -thousand ever thinks of what is going to become of the woman. Of course -there are the rotters who don't care. Most of them just don't think. I -didn't think." - -"I'm glad to believe," I said, "that you didn't think. I've wondered -about it. But will you tell me one thing more: If men don't think, as -you say, why is it that they are so much more likely to hunt down -'unprotected' women, working women, women alone in a city--than those -who have families and friends?" - -There was something terrible in the question, and in the way that he -answered it. He served himself to a delicious ragout that was passed to -him, he sipped and savored the wine in his glass, and then he turned -back to me: - -"They are easier," he said simply, "because so many of them don't get -paid enough to live on. They're glad to help out." - -"And yet," I said, "and yet, Mr. Carney, you own a factory where three -hundred and fifty of these girls don't get paid enough." - -"Oh, well, murder!" he said. "Now you're getting on to something else -entirely. We can't do anything to wages. They're fixed altogether by -supply and demand--supply and demand. You simply take these things as -you find them--that's all." - -"You took me to that factory," I reminded him. - -"Well," he said, "you were looking for a job, weren't you? Was that -three dollars per better than nothing--or wasn't it?" - -I kept still. Something was the matter, we seemed to go in a circle. -Finally I said: - -"Anyway, Mr. Carney, I thank you for answering me. That was a good deal -to do." - -He sat turning his wine-glass, one hand over his mouth. - -"You do make me seem a blackguard," he said, "and yet--on my honor--if -you think I have any--I didn't think I was. I didn't mean anybody any -harm. Damn it all, I was just trying to find a little fun." - -He looked at me. And all at once, I knew how he must have looked when he -was a little boy. I could see the little boy's round eyes and full red -cheeks, and the way he must have answered when he'd done something -wrong. And it didn't seem to me that he'd ever grown any older. I -understood him. I understood most men of his type. And I believed him. -He was just blundering along in the world's horrible, mistaken idea of -fun--that means death to the other one. - -Before I knew it, my eyes brimmed full of tears. He saw that, and sat -staring at me. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -I had gone wondering how I should see him at last, and what we should -say to each other. It never once occurred to me that we might not meet -again, or that when we did meet it would mean merely the casual renewing -of a casual occasion. As for me everything moved from the time when I -had met John Ember, so everything moved toward the time when I should -see him again. I pictured meeting him on the street, at Mrs. Carney's -house, about the university. I pictured him walking into a class room to -give one of the afternoon lectures--older, his hair a little grayed, and -yet so wonderfully the same as when he had spoken to me there on the -country road. And I could imagine that if I said my name to him he would -have to stop and hunt through his mind for any remembrance of that -breakfast and that walk which were, so far, the principal things that -had ever happened to me. - -Then I used to dream that he did remember. - -"Mr. Ember, I'm Cosma Wakely. You won't remember--but I just wanted to -say 'thank you' for what you did." - -And: "Remember. My dear child, I've been looking for you ever since. Sit -down--I want to talk with you." - -Once I saw his picture in a magazine, looking so grave and serious, and -I liked to know that there was that Katytown morning, and that I knew -him in a way that none of the rest did; that I'd been with him on that -lonely, early road and had heard him talk to me--no matter how stupid -I'd acted--and that we'd sat together over breakfast in the yard of the -Dew Drop Inn. Just in that I had one of the joys of a woman who loves a -great man, and understands him as all those who sit and look up to him -can never understand him. I felt as if something of me belonged to John -Ember. - -And when I did see him, it was as if he had never been away. - -I had been twice to see Lena, and found her in the stale-smelling rooms -of her aunt, each time at work upon some tawdry finery of her own. One -day I thought about begging her to go with me to a gallery that I had -found where hung a picture which it seemed to me must speak to her. - -She went readily enough--she was always eager to go somewhere in a -pathetic hope that some new excitement, adventure, would await her. We -walked to the gallery, through the gay absorbed crowd on the avenue; and -as we moved among them, the chattering gaiety with which we had left her -aunt's, fell from her, the lines deepened about her mouth, and finally -she fell silent. - -Almost no one was in the little gallery. I led her to the central bench, -and we sat down facing the picture that I had brought her to see: A -woman in a muslin gown holding a child. I guessed how the Madonnas, in -their exquisite absorption and in radiance and in crimson and blue would -have for her little to say, as a woman to a woman. But this girl, in -the simple line and tone of every day, with a baby in her arms, seemed -to me to hold a great fact, and to offer it. - -Lena looked at her, and her face did not change. I waited, without -saying anything, feeling certain that whatever I said she was in a mood -to contradict. So she spoke first. - -"It looks grand," she said, "till you think of the work of washin' and -ironin' the baby's clothes. And her own. You can bet I shan't keep it in -white." - -"Look at the baby's hand," I said, "around her one finger." - -It was at that moment that the owner of the little gallery came in, with -a possible patron. They stood near us, looking at a landscape by the -artist of the Madonna. - -" ... a wise restraint," he was saying. "Restraint is easy enough--it is -like closing one's mouth all the time. The thing is to close it wisely! -It is not so much the things that he elects not to include in the -composition as it is his particular fashion of omission--without -self-consciousness, with no pride of choice. I should say that of all -the young artists now working in America, he comes the closest to giving -place to the modern movements, seeing them as contributions but not -often as ultimates--" - -"I'm goin'," said Lena. - -I followed her. On the sidewalk, she tossed her head and laughed -unpleasantly. - -"No such talk as that guy was giving in mine," she said. "He feels -smart--that's what ails him. Cossy, I hate folks like that. I hate 'em -when they pretend to know so much...." - -"What if they do know, Lena?" I said. - -"Then I don't want to be with 'em," she answered. "That's easy, ain't -it? Sometimes I almost hate you. Ain't they some store where they's a -basket of trimmin' remnants we could look at?" - -I took her to a shop, and she walked among the shining stuffs, -forgetting me. She loved the gowns on the models. She felt contempt for -no one who was dressed more beautifully than she--only for those who -"knew more" than she. I thought how surely beauty and not knowledge is -the primal teacher, universally welcomed. Beauty is power. - -But the remnant basket did not please her, and we stepped into the -street to seek another shop. And standing beside a motor door, close to -the way we passed, were Mrs. Carney and John Ember. - -It was only for a moment, then the door shut upon them and they drove -away. But I had seen him as I had dreamed him, a little older, but -always in that brown, incomparable youth. He was bending his head to -listen--that was the way I always thought of him. He was giving some -unsmiling assent. He was here, and no longer across the world. I stood -still, staring after the car. - -"Gee, that was a swell blue coat," said Lena. "I don't blame you for -standing stock-still. I bet I could copy that.... Come on!" - -I went with her. But I hardly heard her stream of comment and bitter -chatter. And yet it was not all of John Ember that I was thinking, nor -was I filled only with my singing consciousness that he was back. I was -seeing again Mrs. Carney's face as she had turned to speak to him; -glowing, relaxed, open like a flower. - -Presently I was aware that Lena was not beside me. I looked and she was -before the window of a shop. I crossed to her, and then I saw what she -was looking at--no array of cheap blouses, price-marked, or of flaming -plumes. She stood before the window of a children's outfitting shop. - -I said nothing, nor did she. She looked, and I waited. The white things -were exquisite and, I felt, remote. They were so dainty that I feared -they would alienate her, because they were so much beyond her. But to my -surprise, she turned to me: - -"Could--could we go in here," she asked, "even if we didn't buy -anything?" - -We went in. Within the atmosphere was still more compact of delicate -fabric and fashioning and color. An assured young woman came forward. - -"Leave us look at some of your baby things," said Lena. - -We looked. I shall never forget Lena's hands, ungloved, covered with -rings and cheap blue and red stones, as those hands moved in and about -the heaped-up fineness of the little garments. Of some of the things she -did not know the names. The pink and blue crocheted sacks and socks -brought her back to them again and again. - -"I used to could crochet," she said at length. - -But it was before a small white under-skirt that she made her real way -of contact. She fingered the white simple trimming, and her look flew to -mine. - -"My God," she said, "that's 'three-and-five.' I can do that like -lightning." - -"Get some thread," I said, "and make some...." - -She had made nothing yet. She had told me that. Now she lifted and -touched for a moment among the heaped-up things that they brought her. - -"I've got five dollars," she said, "that I was savin' to get me a swell -hat, when I go back. I might--" - -I said nothing. It seemed to me that a great thing was happening and -that Lena must do it alone. After a little I priced the dimities and -muslins in her hearing. - -"If you want to, Lena," I said, "you could come back to the flat and -Mrs. Bingy would help you to make the things...." - -"Would five dollars get the cloth for two dresses and two skirts and -some crochet wool? Some pink wool?" asked Lena. - -So she bought these things, with the five dollars that hung about her -neck in a little bag. As we went out the door, she saw a bassinet, all -fine whiteness and flowered blue and lace edging. - -"It's a clothes basket!" she cried excitedly. "Don't you see it is? -What's the matter with me making one like that?" She turned to me, -laughing as boisterously as I had heard her laugh in the Katytown -post-office when more traveling men than usual were sitting outside the -door of the Katytown Commercial House. "Land," she said, "when I get -back home, I bet I'll have everything but the baby!" - -I sat beside her in the street-car, and she tried to make a hole in the -paper of her parcel to see again the color of the wool she had bought -for the little sack. There was thread, too, for the "three-and-five." -Lena's eyes were bright and eager. She said little on the way home, and -she made no objection to going with me to the flat. When we unrolled the -parcel on Mrs. Bingy's dining-room table, and I saw Lena stooping and -planning, I thought of the picture that we had left in the little -gallery. There was a look in Lena's eyes that I had never seen there -before. I heard Mrs. Bingy and her chattering happily over the patterns, -and I thought that beauty has many ways of power. - -Then, the next day, I had a telegram from Mrs. Carney. - -"Come to see me to-day," she said. "Important." - -I hurried to her, dreaming, as I had dreamed all night, of whom I might -find with her. But she was alone, and in some happy excitement that was -beautifully becoming to her, who was usually so grave and absent. - -"Cosma," she said, "what would you say to leaving the university before -you have your degree?" - -I knew that very well. "I would say," I said, "that I don't care two -cents about the degree, if I can get the right position without it." - -"I hoped you would say that!" she cried. "Then listen: John Ember has -asked me to find a secretary for him. Will you go and try for the -place?" - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -His library had not many books, not many pictures, and no curtains at -all. The nine o'clock sun fell across the dull rugs, and some blue and -green jars on a shelf shone out as if they were saying something. I -waited for him at the hour of the appointment that Mrs. Carney had made -for me. And for me some of the magic and the terror of the time were in -that she had not told him who I was. When his little Japanese had gone -to call him, I sat there in a happiness which made me over, which made -the whole world seem like another place. I heard his step in the -passage, and I wondered if I was going to be able to speak at all. I -rather thought not, until the very moment that I tried. - -He came toward me, bowing slightly, and motioning me to my chair. I -looked at him, with a leaping expectation in my heart, and, I am -afraid, in my eyes. His own eyes met mine levelly, courteously, and -without a sign of recognition. - -"Now, let us see," he said briskly, and sat down before me. "About how -much experience have you had?" - -"I have never been anybody's secretary, if that is what you mean," I -said, when I could. - -"It is not in the least what I mean," he returned. "If you happen not to -have been anybody's secretary, I am glad of it. I meant, 'What can you -do?'" - -"I can typewrite," I managed to tell him. "And almost always I can -spell." - -"That's good," he said, "though far from essential. Now what else?" - -I thought for a moment. "I can keep still," I said. "I don't believe -there's anything else I can do." - -"That makes an admirable beginning," he observed gravely. "Do--do you -take down all instructions? In notes?" - -"I can, if you like," I said. "But I can never read my own notes." - -"You don't do shorthand?" he cried. - -For the first time, as I shook my head, it occurred to me that I might -not meet his requirements. - -"Well, now," he was saying, "that is good news. I was afraid you might -come with a ruled note-book," he explained. "The flap kind." - -"No," I said, "I begin at both ends of those. And then I never can find -the notes." - -"Precisely," he said. "Now about your head. Is it likely to ache every -few minutes?" - -"Only when I read the map in an automobile," I answered. - -"Fortunately," he assured me, "there will be little of that in my -requirements. Now the honest truth: Can you work hard? Can you work like -a demon if you have to?" - -"Yes. Unless it has figures in it," I said. - -"It hasn't," he said. "Or at least, when it has, I shall have to do -those myself, for my sins. But I warn you, there's some pretty stiff -work ahead. It's a labor survey of China. And I want somebody to do ten -hours a day most of the time, showing how like dogs the Chinese workmen -are treated." - -Ten hours a day with him! I sat silent, trying to take in the magnitude -of my joy. - -"It's too much?" he hazarded. - -"Oh!" I cried. "No. Why no!" He looked up inquiringly. "See the women in -this town," I added, "who work ten hours a day and more." - -"We're going to get along extremely well, then," he said, "if you don't -mind my damned irritability--I beg your pardon. I'm shockingly -irritable--but," he paused, leaning forward, still grave, "let me tell -you, confidentially, now, that I always know it, underneath. You can't -mind what I say too awfully, you know, if I put you in possession of -that fact to start with. Can you?" - -"I shan't mind," I said. - -"Well, you will, you know," he warned me, "but that at least ought to -help. I suppose it wouldn't be possible for you to go to work now? This -moment?" - -"Yes, it would," I said, trying hard not to say it too joyfully. - -"What?" he exclaimed. "Really? Without breaking an engagement? Or -telephoning anybody? This is wonderful. Oh, by the way. Let me see your -hand when you write." - -He brought me a pad and pen and ink. - -"Write anything," he said. "Write." - -I wrote. He watched me absorbedly and drew a sigh that might have been -relief. - -"That's all right, too," he told me. "I had a young woman here helping -me once who wrapped her fingers round the pen when she wrote, in a -fashion that drove me mad. I used to go out and dig in the garden till -my secretary had gone home, and then come in and get down to work -myself." - -I put away my hat, and merely to shut the door on the closet that held -umbrellas and raincoats was an intimacy that gave me joy. I had starved -for him, thirsted for him, and two days ago had not known that he was -not in China still; yet here was this magic, as life knows so well to -manufacture magic. - -"I'm afraid I don't remember," he said, "what Mrs. Carney told me your -name is?" - -While we talked, it had been gradually fastening itself in my mind that -it would have been remarkable if he had recognized me. A country girl, -in a starched white dress, with her hair about her face, acting like a -common creature on the Katytown road, and later, to his understanding -working in a New York factory, could have no connection with a woman of -twenty-six, in well-fitting clothes, who came to him six years after, as -his secretary. I told him my last name, and he said it over as if it had -been Smith. - -In a corner of the library, by the window overlooking the little garden, -he set me to sorting an incredible heap of notes, made illegibly on -paper of varying sizes, unnumbered, but every sheet scrupulously dated. -These covered two years and a half, and their arrangement was anything -but chronological. - -"Note-books have their uses," he admitted, surveying that hopeless -pile. "But not the flap kind," he added hastily. - -I set to work, and as I touched the papers which had been with him all -those days when I had seen the sun off for China, it seemed to me that I -must tell somebody: "It's true then! Excepting for the misery in the -world, you can be perfectly happy!" I had always doubted it. You do -doubt it, until you have a moment of perfect happiness for your own. And -this was the first one that I had ever known. He was at some proofs, and -he promptly forgot my existence. After all these years, after the few -rare glimpses of him which had been food for me and a kind of life, here -I was where by lifting my eyes I could see him, where countless times a -day I could hear him speak. Better than all this, and infinitely dearer, -I was, however humbly, to help him in his work. I, Cosma Wakely, who, on -a day, had tried to flirt with him. - -I went at the notes fearfully. What if I could not understand them? -There were gods, I knew, whose written word is all but measureless to -man, I own that his notes were far from clear. Perhaps it was just -because I so much wanted it that I understood them. Moreover, I found, -to my intense delight, that I some way _felt_ what he was writing. This -I can not explain, but every one who loves some one will know how this -is. - -In half an hour he wheeled suddenly in his chair at the table. I caught, -before he spoke, his look of almost boyish ruefulness. - -"Miss Wakely," he said, "I beg your pardon like anything. What salary do -you have?" - -I felt my face turn crimson. This had occurred to me no more than it had -to him. - -When it was settled, he rose and came toward the corner where I worked, -and stood looking down at me. For a moment I was certain that now he -knew me. - -"Miss Wakely," he said very gently, "may I ask you one thing more? Do -you wear black sateen aprons?" - -"I loathe all aprons," I said. - -"And paper sleeve-shields, too?" he inquired earnestly. "Held by big -rubber bands?" - -"Paper sleeve-shields held by big rubber bands," I said, "I loathe even -more than black sateen aprons." - -"Well," he said, "do you know, there was one young woman once--" and he -went back to his task obliviously. - -At one o'clock I found a little tea-shop in the neighborhood, where food -was scandalously high, after the manner of unassimilated tea-shops. I -remember the clean little room, with a rose on my table and shelves of -jelly over my head. - -"How much better that is than some books," I said to the pink waitress, -because I had to speak to somebody, so that I could smile. The world is -not yet adjusted with that simplicity which permits one to sit in public -places alone and, very happily, to smile. And this, I realized, was what -I had been doing. - -I was obliged to walk twice the transverse length of the blocks cut by -the little studio street, before it was time to go back. As I was -returning the second time, I came face to face with Mr. Ember carrying a -paper sack. - -"Torchido," he explained, "lectures in a young ladies' seminary just at -noon. It is not convenient for me. But I mind nothing so much as the -fact that he will not let me have dried herrings. They--they offend -Torchido. They do not offend me. So I go out and buy herrings of my own -and hide them in the bookcase. But he nearly always smells them out." - -I wanted to say: "You can't buy anywhere such good ones as we used to -have in Katytown." Instead, I said something in disparagement of -Torchido's taste, and reflected on the immeasurable power of dried -herrings in one human being's appeal to another. - -I went back to work in my corner, and he ate herrings and buns, -unabashed, at his library table. When I saw Torchido coming along the -garden wall, I said: "Torchido--he's coming!" and Mr. Ember swept the -remains of his lunch into the sack and dropped it into one of the -glorious green-blue jars. - -Torchido came in for orders, took them, stood for a moment plainly -sniffing the air, pointedly opened a far window, and respectfully -retreated. Whereat the first faint smile that I had seen met my look, -when the door had closed. - -It was a heavenly day. It seemed to me that some heritage of my young -girlhood had, after all, not quite escaped in all that sordid time, but -had waited for me, let me catch it up and, now, enjoy it as I never -could have enjoyed it then. - -I walked home that night, in remembrance of that first miserable walk -away from that studio, and because I like to be happy in the exact -places where I have been miserable. I wanted to be alone for a little -while, too, to think out what had happened. And all the way home that -night, and all the evening when I did no work, the thing which kept -recurring to me was the magic of a universe in which herrings and the -absence of black sateen aprons permit immortal beings to draw a little -nearer to each other. - -The days were all happy. That combination of fellowship and its humor, -together with a complete impersonality which yet exquisitely takes -account of all human personality and variously values it, was something -which I had never before known in any man. I had not, in fact, known -that it was in the world. It is exceedingly rare--yet. Most women die -without knowing that it does occasionally exist. But it presages the -thing which lies somewhere there, beyond the border of the present, -beside which the spectacle of romantic love _without it_ will be as -absurd as chivalry itself. - -I used to think, in those first days, how gloriously democratic love -would make us--if we would let it. I understood history now--from the -time of the first man and woman! Not a cave man, not a shepherd on the -hills, not a knight in a tournament, but that I understood the woman who -had loved him. It was astonishing, to have, all of a sudden, not only -the Eloises and Helens clear to me--they have been clear to many--but -also every little obscure woman who has ever watched for a man to come -home. And it wasn't only that. It was that I understood so much better -the woman of now. Women in cars and in busses, shoppers, shop-women, -artists, waitresses, char-women, "great" ladies--none of them could -deceive me any more. No snobbery, no hauteur, no superiority, no -simplicity could ever trap me into any belief that they and I were -different. If they loved men, then I know them through and through. - -"Mrs. Bingy," I said to her one night, "did you ever love Mr. Bingy -much?" - -She was re-setting the pins in her pillow and she looked over at me with -careful attention. - -"Well," she said, "they was a good many of us to home, you know; and I -didn't have much to do with; and I really married Keddie to get a home. -But of course, afterward I got fond of him. And then to think of us -now!" - -"But you really didn't love him when you married him?" - -"No," she said. "It's a terrible thing to own up to." - -And there again was the whole naked problem, as I had seen it for her, -for Lena, for my mother, for all the women of Katytown, for Mrs. -Carney, for Rose.... What was the matter? When love was in the world for -us all, when at some time every one of us shared it--what was the reason -that it came to this? Or--as I had seen almost as often--to the model -"happy" home, which often bred selfishness and oblivion? - -Yet in those days I confess that I thought far less about these things -than I did of the simple joy of being in that workroom where he was. - -There was a day of rain early in June--of rain so intense and compelling -that when lunchtime came I left in the midst of it, while Mr. Ember was -out of the room, so that he should not be constrained to ask me to stay. -When I came back he scolded me. - -"You didn't use good sense!" he said. "Why didn't you?" - -"I used all I had," I replied with meekness. - -"If that was all you had, you'd lose your job," he grumbled. "Never go -out from here again in such a rain as that. Do you hear?" - -Torchido not yet having returned from his lecture, Mr. Ember built up a -cedar fire in the fireplace and made me dry my feet. - -"I am going to make you a cup of tea," he said, "from some--" - -"Don't tell me," I said, "that it's from the same kind that the emperor -uses?" - -"It is not," he replied. "This is another form of the same -advertisement. This is some which was picked four hundred years ago." - -"Oh," I said, "I dislike tea more than I can tell you. But I should like -to drink a cup of that." - -The stuff was horrible. It was not strong, but it had an unnameable -puckering quality. I tasted it, and waited. - -"Do you like it?" he asked eagerly. - -"It is," I said, "the worst tea I have ever tasted in my whole life. I -feel as if I had been shirred." - -He burst into laughter. - -"So I think," he said, "but lovely ladies drink it down and pretend to -like it, just because I tell 'em what it is. I'm glad you hate it." - -He held the tin over the coals. - -"Shall I burn it?" he asked. "To the tune of 'What horrid humbugs lovely -ladies are'?" - -"Oh, no," I said, "give it to some old lady who will think it is just -tea." - -He nodded. "You have made the economically correct adjustment," he said. -"And that is a good deal of a trick." - -One morning when I went in, I found him sitting at his table pressing -the tips of his fingers to his closed eyes. - -"Good morning, Miss Wakely," he said. "These two tools of mine are -rusting out. It's a nuisance just now, with the proof coming." - -I said: "Couldn't I read it to you?" - -"Frankly, I'm afraid not;" he answered. "I belong to the half of mankind -who can not be read to. I _think_ that I couldn't bear it. But you may -try." - -He sat in a deep chair, with his back to the light, and I before him, -with a little table for the proof. I read to him, doing my best to keep -my mind on what I was reading. His bigness, his gentleness, his -abstraction, his humor were like a constant speaking presence, even when -he was silent. - -When I had read for ten minutes, he interrupted me. - -"It's wonderful," he said. "You can do it. I'm trying to get at the -reason. You don't over-emphasize. And yet your voice is so flexible that -you aren't monotonous. And you don't plunge at every sentence, and come -down hard on the first word, and taper off to nothing. If it keeps up, -this is going to make me a terrible grafter, because I can't begin to -pay you for what this will be worth to me." - -"I'll stay as long as I can stand it!" I told him, trying to keep the -happiness out of my eyes and my voice at the same time. - -In a little while, the joyous sensation of what I was doing gave way to -the interest in the reading itself. His book, I found, was a serious -study of work in its relation to human growth. From the Hebraic -conception of work as a curse to the present-day conception of work as -conscious cooperation in creation, in evolution, he was coming down the -line, visiting all nations, entering all industries. - -It was curious that, in those first days there never once passed between -us any word of the great human problems in which we were both so -excludingly interested. I understood that doubtless he had accustomed -himself to saying very little about them, save when he knew that he -would meet understanding. I had been at work for him more than a month -before we ever talked at all, save the casual give-and-take of the day, -and in occasional interludes, like the interludes of herrings and tea. - -One morning we were copying some Chinese reports giving the total wages -earned by men in seventy-year periods, and some totals to indicate their -standards of living. Suddenly he said: - -"Considering our civilization, and our culture and -enlightenment-business, our own figures, proportionately to what we -might make them with our resources, are blacker than the ex-empire's." - -"You can't tell it in totals, though," I said. "You can't indicate in -figures what is lost by low wages, any more than you can measure great -works of genius by efficiency charts." - -"You care about these things?" he asked. - -"More than anything else," I answered. - -After that, he talked to me sometimes about his work. - -"I wish," he said once, "that I knew more about the working women. I'd -like to get some of this off before a group of working women, and see -how they'd take it." - -"I could plan that for you," I said, "if you really mean it." - -He looked at me curiously. "You are a remarkable little person," he -observed. "Are there, then, things that you can't do?" - -I went to see Rose back in the same factory, a little more worn, a -little less hopeful, but still at her work among the girls. She welcomed -the suggestion that he come to speak. He came for the next week's -meeting. - -"Rose," I said, "don't say anything to Mr. Ember about me." - -Before that night came round, something happened. One morning, when Mr. -Ember was going through his mail, he read one letter through twice. - -"This one," he said, "I must take time to answer. My lecture bureau has -gone into bankruptcy." - -"Well," I said, "what of that? You don't need a bureau." - -"It's not that," he said; "I own stock in it." - -At noon he went out. When he came in his face was clear, and he went -back to his proof. As I was leaving that night he spoke abruptly: - -"Miss Wakely," he said, "I am sorry to have to tell you something--I am -indeed. After this week I must not have you any more." - -For this I was utterly unprepared. I looked up at him with all the -terror and despair which filled me. "I'm not doing your work well?" I -tried to say. But--"You're doing my work," he answered, "as I never -hoped to have it done. It isn't that. It isn't only that this failure -leaves me with very little money. There's thirty thousand dollars owing -to lecture and Chautauqua people, and the company hasn't a cent." - -"You mean," I said, "that you will help pay this thirty thousand?" - -"There's no one else," he answered. "I'm the only stockholder who has -anything at all. And the rest have families." - -"Can they compel you to do this?" I asked. It is amazing how the brute -instincts reappear in areas new; to experience. I was civilized enough -in some things, and yet instinctively I asked: "Can they compel you?" - -He merely stood smiling down at me. "Most of the speakers are -twenty-dollar-a-night men," he said. "They can't lose it, you see." - -"I beg your pardon," I said, and went out to the street in a kind of -glory. So he was like this! - -That Saturday night he handed me my pay, with, "Good-by, Miss Wakely. I -can't thank you--I really can't, you know." - -"Good-by, Mr. Ember," I replied cheerfully, and went. - -On Monday morning, when he came into the workroom with his letters I -sat there oiling the typewriter. - -He stared at me. "Miss Wakely," he said in distress, "I must have -muddled it awfully. I wasn't clear--" - -"Yes," I said, "you were clear. But I thought I'd enjoy keeping on with -the proof. May I have a clean cloth for the machine?" - -He came over to the typewriter table, and stood looking down at me. I -dared not look up, because I was worried about my eyes and what they -might have to say. Then he put out his hand, and I gave him mine. - -"I'm afraid I'll get typewriter oil on you," I said, "and it's smelly." - -He went on with the letters without another word. There were two great -envelopes of proof. He never could have got through them alone. - -The night that he spoke to the girls, I went over early and slipped in -the back seat. The hall was filled; I was glad of that. And as soon as -he began speaking I saw that he knew how to talk to them. He was just -talking to them about the fundamental of human growth, and how the -whole industrial struggle was nothing but the assertion of the right of -the workers to growth. He showed this struggle as but one phase of -something as wide as life. - -"You want a better life, don't you?" he said. "You want to enjoy more, -and know more and be more. And the people who can individually get these -things by your toil you are set against.... But what are you working -for? Food and clothes and a little fun? And your own children? I say -that those of you who are working just for these things for yourselves -are almost as bad as those who work for their own luxury.... What then? -What are we working for? Why, to make the world where _all of us_ can -have a better life, and enjoy more, and know more, and be more. And -we've got to do this together. And those of us who are not trying to -raise the standard for _all of us_, whether employers or employees, are -all outlaws together." - -It was wonderful to see how he faced that audience of tired men and -women, and kindled them into human beings. It was wonderful to see the -hope and then the belief and then the courage come quickening in their -eyes, in their faces, in their applause. Afterward they went forward -like one person to meet him, to take his hand. While they were with him, -they became one person. It was almost as if they became, before his -eyes, what he was there to tell them that they could go toward. - -I had meant to slip out of the hall afterward. The last thing that I had -meant to do was to walk down the aisle and put out my hand. Yet when he -had finished, that was what I did. - -"You liked it?" he said to me. - -"I know it!" I told him. - -"Ah, that's it," he answered. "Wait," he added. - -So I waited until they had all spoken with him, and I wondered how any -one could watch them and not understand them. One girl, new in the -factory, came to him: - -"Now you have showed me where I belong in my little life," she said to -him in broken English. "Before, I felt as if I had been born and then -somebody had walked away and left me there. Now I see where I am, after -all." - -Afterward, Rose came to me, and her face was new. "If only we could keep -them where they are now," she said. "But when they get hungry once, they -forget it all." - -Mr. Ember and I went down to the street. "Don't you want to walk home?" -he said to me. And when we had left the push-carts and the noise, he -turned to me in the still street: - -"Now tell me?" he said. "How do you know those girls so well?" - -I answered in genuine surprise. It seemed to me he must know. - -"You!" he exclaimed. "Worked in a factory? At what? And when?" - -I told him some of the things that I had done. He listened, and had no -idea in the world that it was he who began it all for me. He smiled with -me at my year with Miss Manners and Miss Spot. "And now what?" he asked. - -"Now I'm secretary to you," I reminded him. - -"You are not," he said, "you're an unpaid slave, being exploited for -all you're worth, and you ought to be on strike this minute. Seriously," -he added, "I can't go on this way. Don't you see that I can't allow it?" - -"I beg your pardon," I said--and indeed I had hardly heard what he had -been saying, for I was thinking: Here--walking along the street with -me--John Ember, John Ember, _John Ember_! - -"I'm saying," he observed, "that I discharge you from to-night." - -"Look here, Mr. Ember," I said, "you can't discharge me--don't you -understand! I've made up my mind to stay with you." - -"Oh!" he exclaimed. "So you've made up your mind?" - -"You mustn't be so selfish," I explained it. "You must think a little of -me. Here you are, doing a big, fine work, work that interests me more -than anything in the world. I've no other chance to help on, except -through you and Rose. Why do you want to drive me out?" - -"But, my child," he said, "if you don't mind the practicality of the -question, what are you living on?" - -"Oh, that!" I said. "I pay my way by making Mrs. Bingy's lace." - -He was silent for a moment. "You really want to?" he asked. "It isn't -pity?" - -"I really want to," I told him. "That's why I'm going to!" - -He drew a deep breath. "Then that's settled," he said; "I own up to you. -I didn't know how on earth I was going to get on without you!" - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -So there went on that relation for which this age has no name of its -own: the relation of the man, as worker, and the "out-family" woman who -is his helper. It is a new thing, for a new day. There has never been a -time when its need was not recognized; but usually, if this need was -filled at all, it had to be filled clandestinely. It used to be the -courtezans who had the brains, or, at any rate, who used them. The -"protected" woman, sunk in domestic drudgery, or in fashion and folly, -or exquisitely absorbed in the rearing of her children, could not often -share in her husband's work. And, too, in the new order, she is not -necessary to share in her husband's work, for she is to have work of her -own, sometimes like his and sometimes quite other. The function of the -"out-family" woman is clearly defined. And the relationship will be -nothing that the wife of the future will fear. - -It happened that I loved this man to whom I assumed the relationship of -helper, and that I had loved him before I began to share his work. But -it is true that, as the days went on, I began to dwell more on our work -and less on my loving him. It was not that I loved him less. As I worked -near him, and came to know him better, mind and heart, I loved him more -but there was no time to think about that! All day we worked at his -proof, his lectures, his correspondence with men and women, bent, as he -was bent, on great issues. Gradually our hours of work lengthened, began -earlier, lasted into the dusk; and I had the sense of definite service -to a great end. Most of all I had this when I answered the letters from -the workers themselves, for then it seemed to me that I went close to -the moving of great tides. - - - "You speak for us--you say the thing we are too dumb to say. Maybe - you are the one who is going to make people listen while we - breathe down here under their feet, when we can breathe at all." - - -Letters like this, misspelled, half in a foreign tongue, delivered by -hand or coming across the continent, were a part of the work which had -become my life. And all the breathlessness, the tremor, the delicious -currents of those first days were less real than this new relation, -deeper than anything which those first days had dreamed. - -One day I had forgotten to go to luncheon and, some time after two, -Torchido being absent to lecture at a young ladies' seminary, Mr. Ember -came bringing me a tray himself. - -"If any one was to do that you ought to have let me," I cried. - -"Why?" he demanded. "Now, why? You mean because you're a woman!" - -"Yes," I admitted, "I suppose that's what I did mean." - -"You ought to be ashamed of that," he said, "you cave-woman. I don't -believe you can cook, anyway." - -"No," I owned, "I can't cook. And I don't want to cook." - -"Yet you automatically assume the rôle the moment it presents itself," -he charged. "It's always amazing. A man will pick up a woman's -handkerchief, help her up a step which she can get up as well as he, -walk on the outside of the walk to protect her from lord knows what--and -yet the minute that a dish rattles anywhere, he retires, in content and -lets her do the whole thing. We're a wondrous lot." - -"Give us another million years," I begged. "We're coming along." - -He served me, and ate something himself. And this was the first time -that we had broken bread together since that morning at the Dew Drop -Inn, when I had ordered salt pork and a piece of pie. Obviously, this -was the time to tell him.... My heart began to beat. I played with the -moment, thinking as I had thought a hundred times, how I would tell him. -Suppose I said: "Do you imagine that this is the first time we have -eaten together?" Or, "Do you remember the last time we sat at table?" -Or, "Have you ever wondered what became of Cosma Wakely?" I discarded -them all, and just then I heard him saying: - -"I like very well to see you eat, Mademoiselle Secretary. You do it with -the tips of your fingers." - -"Truly?" I cried. And suddenly my eyes brimmed with tears. I remembered -Cossy Wakely and her peaches. - -"What is it?" he asked quickly. - -But I only said: "Oh, I was just thinking about the 'infinite -improvability of the human race'!" - -Then Lena was summoned home, and she begged me to go with her. - -She had been for three months at Mrs. Bingy's, and a drawer of my bureau -was filled with dainty clothes that, with Mrs. Bingy's help, she had -made. We had contributed what we could, and all day long and for long -evenings, she had sat contentedly at her work. But she kept putting off -home-going, and one night she had told me the reason. - -"Cossy," she said, "you remember how it is there to Luke's folks' -house--everybody scolding and jawing. And I know I'll be just like 'em. -And it kind of seems as if, if I could stay here, where it's still and -decent and good-natured, it might make some difference--to _it_." - -On the morning that the message came to her, Mrs. Carney had come into -Mr. Ember's workroom. Mr. Ember was out. A small portrait exhibit was -being made at one of the galleries and, having promised, he had gone off -savagely to see it on the exhibit's last day. It was then that Mrs. -Bingy telephoned, in spasms of excitement over the telegram. Luke's -mother had fallen and hurt her hip. Lena must come home. - -"And, Cossy!" Mrs. Bingy shouted, "Lena thought--Lena wondered--Lena -wants you should go with her." - -I understood. Lena dreaded to face that household after her absence, -even though she was returning with her precious work. - -"I'll go," I told her; "I'll be there in an hour." - -When I turned, Mrs. Carney sat leaning a little toward me, with an -expression in her face that I did not know. - -"Cosma," she said, "I want to tell you something--while John Ember is -away. I have wanted you to know." - -She had beautifully colored, and she was intensely grave. - -"I've taken it for granted, dear," she said, "that you must know that I -love him." - -I stood staring down at her. "Mr. Ember?" I said, "Why, no! No!" - -"Well, neither does he know," she said, "and I do not mean that he ever -shall. I should of course be ashamed of loving Mr. Carney." - -"Then why--why--" I began and stopped. - -"Why do we keep on living together?" she asked. "I haven't the courage. -And I have no property. And I have no way to earn my living--now. -Cosma--I'm caught, bound. To love John Ember has made life bearable to -me. Can you understand?" - -Then she kissed me. "Cosma!" she said, "I'm glad that you know. I've -wanted you to know. For I was afraid that you had guessed, and that it -might make a difference to you ... when he tells you." - -"Tells me...." I repeated. "Tells me...." - -The blood came beating in my face and in my throat. Seeing this, she -spoke on quietly about herself. We were sitting so when Mr. Ember came -home. And I was struck by the exquisite dignity and beauty of her manner -to him. She was like some one looking at him from some near-by plane, -knowing that she might not touch him or speak to him--not because it was -forbidden, but because they themselves were the law. - -Then I looked at him, and I saw that he was looking at me strangely. -There was a curious searching, meditative quality in his look which -somehow terrified me. I sprang up. - -"Mr. Ember," I said, "they want me to go home--there has been a telegram -to a friend. I want to go with her. She needs me...." - -"Where is 'home'?" he asked only. - -"In the country," I answered, and had on my wraps and was at the door, -"I'll be back to-morrow," I told him. - -Mrs. Carney had risen. - -"Cosma!" she said clearly. "Wait. I'll drive you home." - -As she spoke my name, my eyes flew to his. He was looking at me with a -kind of soft brilliance in his face, and the surprise of some certainty. -Then I knew that something had happened to make him know, and that now -he remembered. - -I ran out and down the walk before Mrs. Carney. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -In the late afternoon light, Katytown looked to me beautiful: the -weather-beaten station, the empty platform, the long, dusty main street, -which informally became the country road without much change of habit. -Lena and I took what Katytown called "the rig," and drove out to Luke's -father's farm. - -We went into the kitchen, and Luke's mother, helpless now in her chair, -broke out at us shrilly: "Well, and about time, you good-for-nothing -high-fly!" she welcomed her daughter-in-law. - -Luke, eating his supper, shuffled up from the table and came toward her. -Lena amazed me. She went to him and kissed him, not with a manner of -apology, but of abstraction. Then she opened her suit-case. "Look, -Luke," she said. "Look, Mother," and hardly heard the mother's talk, -flowing on. Luke's mother watched her, lowering. Luke commented -awkwardly, and went off to the barn. Lena turned to the sink, filled -with unwashed dishes. The clatter of these, of faultfinding, the murk of -steam received her. But she moved among these with a new dignity. It -seemed as if life would have let Lena be so much, if only somebody had -understood in time. - -I left her, and walked toward my own home. But for that morning in -Twiney's pasture, six years ago, I should be back there now, in Lena's -place. For me, somebody had understood in time. Before I knew it, I had -broken into swift running along the country road. I must somehow make -everybody understand in time. - -The house lay quiet in the dreaming sunshine. I stepped to the open -kitchen door. They were at supper. My mother pushed back her chair and -came running to the door. - -"Cossy!" she cried. "Oh, Cossy! I mean Cosma." - -"You call me whatever you want to," I said, and kissed her. - -Bert and Henny came roaring out at me. They filled the kitchen with -their bodies and voices. Father kissed me. They sat with me, while -Mother brought me some supper. - -"Flossy dress, sis," Henny offered easily. "Day after to-morrow," he -said, when I asked him when he was going back to his work. "We've got a -committee to meet with a committee of the traction folks. We may be hot -in it in another week." And when I asked, in what, he added: "Oh, we've -got some fines and dockings and cuts in wages to fix up, and they're -trying to make us pay more for our dynamite--you wouldn't understand." - -I turned and looked at my brothers. For some reason, never until that -moment had it occurred to me to count them in with those of us who were -dreaming new dreams for labor. They had been simply my brothers, ugly, -irritable, teasing. But they were laborers with whom, as strangers, I -could make common cause. Bert's great figure and dead eyes and -brutalized mouth were the figure and eyes and mouth of "The Puddler," -which I had lately gone to an art gallery to see! - -"I tell you," Father said, "there's new times coming for you fellows, -or I miss my guess. I say it every day when I read the papers." - -So then we talked, Father and Henry and Bert and I. For the first time -in our years together, we spoke of these matters and listened to one -another. This was talk such as would have been impossible while I stayed -there, either idle or drudging. Now I was a person, and we could -exchange impressions. It came to me what family meetings might be, if -each one were engaged in some happy, _chosen_ toil, with its interests -to exchange. And warm in me came welling and throbbing an understanding -of them all, as fellow human beings, fellow workers, a relationship -which the sense of family had hitherto obstructed and bound. - -Presently Father and the boys went away. - -"Let's sit down a while and talk," Mother said to me, turning her back -on the dishes. "Shall we go in the parlor?" she asked. - -I voted against the parlor, and we sat in the kitchen. - -"You've never once come up to the city, Mother," I said, "since I've -been there. Won't you come some time? We could have a drive and a play." - -"I've always wanted to go to the city again," she said; "I've always -wanted to be there Sunday, and go to church in a big church." She looked -out to see if Father was back. "Cossy," she said, "since you've been up -there, have you seen much of any silverware?" - -"Silverware?" I repeated. - -"Not knives and forks. I mean pitchers--and coffee pots. I s'pose the -houses you went to must use them common." And when I had answered, "I'd -like to see some, some time, before I die," she said. "And I'd like to -see a hothouse, with roses in winter." - -"Come on then," I said. "We'll find some, Mother." - -"The fare up and back is just exactly the fire-insurance money for three -years," she said. "I always think of that." - -Later, she went to baking pies, against the morrow. And she scolded -somewhat about the lamp wick that was too short, and the green wood on -the fire and I went and hugged her, merely because I seemed to know so -well what had always made her cross. For here was the same condition -which we fought for the other workers: badly remunerated toil, which was -not the real expression of the toiler; and no recreation. - -That night I went up to my little old room, and nothing was changed. The -little tintype of me was still stuck in the mirror. "Shall I sleep with -you?" Mother said. I lay with my hand in hers, immersed in a new -knowledge. - -My family was dear to me--not on the old hypocritical basis which would -have pretended to a nearness that it did not feel. But dear through the -only real basis, a basis which we had persistently baffled and inhibited -all the while that we lived together: human understanding. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -I had planned to be back in the city by noon the next day. But there was -something that I wanted to do before I left Katytown. I wanted to go -into the little grove which, far more than the up-stairs place where I -slept, had always seemed to me to be "my room." I went there after our -early breakfast. The place was considerably thinned, but it was still -sanctuary. - -When I reached the fence by the road, I went over it in the old way. As -I went, I was conscious that some one, somewhere, was singing. As I -struck into the road, the low humming which I had heard was mounting. -And then it lifted suddenly into the words of its song. The man who was -singing it had just passed, and he had his face set from me. But I knew -him, as I knew his song. Then the time and the hour swept over me, and I -sang with him: - - - "Oh, Mother dear, Jerusalem, Thy joys when shall I see...." - - -He wheeled, and stood still in the road and let me come to him. And the -song broke off, and he was saying: - -"Cosma! Cosma Wakely! I've come to scold you!" - -"It was such fun!" I pleaded. - -"But so to take in a near-sighted old gentleman who goes out of his mind -trying to remember any of the thousand faces he sees in a year of -lectures--ah, it was too bad. Why didn't you tell me?" - -"I was trying to get made over," I said. "And I'm not made over yet. You -had no right to find me out! How did you find me out?" - -"I went to that gallery," he explained, "yesterday. And there I saw -Gerald Massy's portrait of you--and underneath he has, you know, set -'Cosma.' I have never forgotten that name--how could I? So I came -galloping home to accuse you. And there sat Mrs. Carney calling you -'Cosma,' before my eyes. What I can't understand," he ended savagely, -"is how I can have been so dumb. Now, tell me--tell me!" - -We were walking in the road, which had somehow assumed a docile and -appeased look, like something which we were stroking as it was meant to -be stroked. And I told him the rest, beginning with the hour that he had -left me in Twiney's pasture. And so we came to Twiney's pasture again. - -We broke through the wet sedge, and went over the fence as we had gone -that other morning. And presently we stood at the top of the hill from -which he had first shown me the whole world. - -Then I did my best to tell him. "Mr. Ember!" I said, "all the little bit -I've been able to make out of myself, you've made. I want to tell you -that--and I'm not telling it at all!" I cried. - -He stood as he had stood before, with the sky's great blue behind him. -And he said: - -"Then just don't bother with it. Besides, I've something far more -important to try to say to you--the best I know how. Cosma--will you -marry me?" - -In those first days, I had sometimes dreamed of his saying that--dreamed -it hopelessly; but sometimes, too, I had sunk warm in the thought of it, -as if there all thought had come home. Yet now, when he actually said -it, it came to me with a great shock. And out of the fulness of what I -suddenly read in my heart, I answered him: - -"Why, I can't marry you," I said. "I can't give up my work with you!" - -He looked down at me gravely, and he made me the answer of all men. - -"Give up the work! But the work together is one of the reasons why I -love you." - -"I can see that," I said. "And the work together is one of the reasons I -love you. But----" - -He put out his arms then, and took me. - -"You said you loved me!" he said. - -"I do," I said, "why of course I do----" - -And when he kissed me it was as if nothing new had happened, but only -something which was already ours. - -"Then what is it," he asked, "but you for me, and me for you?" - -And I cried, "Oh, don't you see? That after being what I've been to -you--knowing your work and your thought--I can't stop it and be just -your wife? I can't exchange this for looking after your house and -ordering your food, and sending off the laundry and keeping your clothes -mended?" - -"But, my child----" he began. - -"I know what you mean," I told him, "you think it wouldn't be that way. -You think we'd go on as we are. We wouldn't--we wouldn't. All those -things have to be done--I'd be the one to do them. It would be I who -would begin to play myself false, I who would begin to do all the little -housewifely things that other women do. It would get me--it would eat up -my time and my real work with you--I tell you it would get me in the -end! It gets every woman!" - -"Well," he said again, "what then?" - -I saw his eyes, understanding, humorous, tender. "Don't!" I cried; -"it's almost got me now--when you look at me like that." - -"Well," he said again, "what then?" - -"Oh, don't you see?" I cried, "I've got myself to fight. I care now for -big issues--for life and death and the workers--for the future more than -for now. We are working for them--you and I. I will not let myself care -only for getting your food and keeping the house tidy!" - -He looked away over the fields, and by his eyes I thought that now I had -lost him for good and all. But he only said: - -"To think what we have done to love--all of us. Of course I know that -the possibility is exactly what you say it is." - -"Not the possibility," I said, "the inevitability. Look at all of them -down there--Mother, Lena, Luke's mother, every woman in Katytown--and -most of them everywhere else. They're all prostituted to housework. -Don't let me do it! You've saved me this far--you've helped me to be the -little that I've made of myself. Now help me! And," I added, "you'll -_have_ to help me. For I want to do it!" - -He put out his hand, not like a lover, but like a comrade. And when I -gave him mine, he shook it, like a friend. - -"I will help you," he said. "Here's my hand on it. And it strikes me -that this is about the most poignant appeal that a woman can make to a -man. To his chivalry, if you like!" - -And then I said the rest: "And you must see--I'm not a mother-woman. I -should love children--to have them, to give them every free chance to -grow. But it would be the same with them: their sewing, their mending, a -good deal of the care of them--I don't know about it, and I shouldn't -like it. I shouldn't be wise about their feeding, or the care of them if -they were sick. And as for saying that the knowledge comes with the -physical birth of the child, that's sheer nonsense." - -"Oh, utter nonsense," he agreed. "Yes, I know you're not a -'mother-woman,' in the sense that means a nurse. Many women are not who -are afraid to acknowledge it. But you'd give strength and health to -your children--you're fitted to bring them into the world--you'd love -them, and all children." - -And this was thrillingly true for me. "What I really want to do," I -said, "is to help make the world a home for all children--to make -life--and their birth--normal and healthful and right, my own children -included." - -"You're the new factor that we've got to deal with, Cosma," he said, -"the mother-to-the-race woman. A woman whose passion for the children of -the race isn't necessarily to be confused with a passion for keeping -their ears clean. It's something that we've all got to work out -together...." He broke off, and cried out to me, "Cosma! Are you willing -that we shall let this beat us?" - -I looked up at him. - -"It's something that has to be worked out," he repeated. "All that -you've been saying--it's got to be worked out for all women. Well, it's -not going to be done by every woman funking it, and staying unmarried." - -He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. - -"Are you sure," he said, "that I understand? That from the bottom of my -heart I know and feel what you've been saying? And that I'll do the best -I can to help you work it out?" - -"Yes," I said, "I'm sure of that." - -I was intensely sure of him--sure that we looked at life with the same -love for the same kind of living. - -"Will you come?" he cried. "Will you come and face it with me? And do -your best, somehow, to work it out with me?" - -[Illustration: "Will you come and face it with me?"] - -His arms drew me, and in them was home. And for my life I could not have -told whether I went to meet his challenge, or whether I went because we -were each other's in the ancient way. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING*** - - -******* This file should be named 51579-8.txt or 51579-8.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/1/5/7/51579 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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B. King</h1> -<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: A Daughter of the Morning</p> -<p>Author: Zona Gale</p> -<p>Release Date: March 28, 2016 [eBook #51579]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4>E-text prepared by Martin Pettit<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/daughterofmornin00galerich"> - https://archive.org/details/daughterofmornin00galerich</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="center"><a name="cover.jpg" id="cover.jpg"></a><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">A DAUGHTER OF THE<br />MORNING</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i006.jpg" alt="Cosma" /></div> - -<p class="bold">Cosma</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<h1>A DAUGHTER OF THE<br />MORNING</h1> - -<p class="bold space-above"><i>By</i></p> - -<p class="bold2">ZONA GALE</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>Author of</i><br /> -Friendship Village, When I Was a Little Girl<br />Neighborhood Stories, etc.</p> - -<p class="bold space-above">ILLUSTRATED BY</p> - -<p class="bold">W. B. KING</p> - -<p class="bold space-above">INDIANAPOLIS<br />THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY<br />PUBLISHERS</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright 1917<br />The Bobbs-Merrill Company</span></p> - -<p class="center space-above">PRESS OF<br />BRAUNWORTH & CO.<br /> -BOOK MANUFACTURERS<br />BROOKLYN, N. Y.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">A DAUGHTER OF THE<br />MORNING</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smcap">Page</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER I</td> - <td><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER II</td> - <td><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER III</td> - <td><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER IV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER V</td> - <td><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER IX</td> - <td><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER X</td> - <td><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_275">275</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVIII </td> - <td><a href="#Page_281">281</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">A Daughter of the Morning</p> - -<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> - -<p>I found this paper on the cellar shelf. It come around the boys' new -overalls. When I was cutting it up in sheets with the butcher knife on -the kitchen table, Ma come in, and she says:</p> - -<p>"What you doin' <i>now</i>?"</p> - -<p>The way she says "now" made me feel like I've felt before—mad and ready -to fly. So I says it right out, that I'd meant to keep a secret. I says:</p> - -<p>"I'm makin' me a book."</p> - -<p>"Book!" she says. "For the receipts you know?" she says, and laughed -like she knows how. I hate cooking, and she knows it.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p><p>I went on tying it up.</p> - -<p>"Be writing a book next, I s'pose," says Ma, and laughed again.</p> - -<p>"It ain't that kind of a book," I says. "This is just to keep track."</p> - -<p>"Well, you'd best be doing something useful," says Ma. "Go out and pull -up some radishes for your Pa's supper."</p> - -<p>I went on tying up the sheets, though, with pink string that come around -Pa's patent medicine. When it was done I run my hand over the page, and -I liked the feeling on my hand. Then I saw Ma coming up the back steps -with the radishes. I was going to say something, because I hadn't gone -to get them, but she says:</p> - -<p>"Nobody ever tries to save me a foot of travelin' around."</p> - -<p>And then I didn't care whether I said it or not. So I kept still. She -washed off the radishes, bending over the sink that's in too low. She'd -wet the front of her skirt with some suds of something she'd washed out, -and her cuffs was wet, and her hair was coming down.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p><p>"It's rack around from morning till night," she says, "doing for folks -that don't care about anything so's they get their stomachs filled."</p> - -<p>"You might talk," I says, "if you was Mis' Keddie Bingy."</p> - -<p>"Why? Has anything more happened to her?" Ma asked.</p> - -<p>"Nothing new," I says. "Keddie was drinking all over the house last -night. I heard him singing and swearing—and once I heard her scream."</p> - -<p>"He'll kill her yet," says Ma. "And then she'll be through with it. I'm -so tired to-night I wisht I was dead. All day long I've been at -it—floors to mop, dinner to get, water to lug."</p> - -<p>"Quit going on about it, Ma," I says.</p> - -<p>"You're a pretty one to talk to me like that," says Ma.</p> - -<p>She set the radishes on the kitchen table and went to the back door. One -of her shoes dragged at the heel, and a piece of her skirt hung below -her dress.</p> - -<p>"Jim!" she shouted, "your supper's ready. Come along and eat it,"—and -stood there twisting her hair up.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p><p>Pa come up on the porch in a minute. His feet were all mud from the -fields, and the minute he stepped on Ma's clean floor she begun on him. -He never said a word, but he tracked back and forth from the wash bench -to the water pail, making his big black footprints every step. I should -think she <i>would</i> have been mad. But she said what she said about half a -dozen times—not mad, only just whining and complaining and like she -expected it. The trouble was, she said it so many times.</p> - -<p>"When you go on so, I don't care how I track up," says Pa, and dropped -down to the table. He filled up his plate and doubled down over it, and -Ma and I got ours.</p> - -<p>"What was you and Stacy talkin' about so long over the fence?" Ma says, -after a while.</p> - -<p>"It's no concern of yours," says Pa. "But I'll tell ye, just to show ye -what some women have to put up with. Keddie Bingy hit her over the head -with a dish in the night. It's laid her up, and he's down to the Dew -Drop Inn, filling himself full."</p> - -<p>"She's used to it by this time, I guess," Ma<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> says. "Just as well take -it all at once as die by inches, <i>I</i> say."</p> - -<p>"Trot out your pie," says Pa.</p> - -<p>As soon as I could after we'd done the dishes, I took my book up to the -room. Ma and I slept together. Pa had the bedroom off the dining-room. I -had the bottom bureau drawer to myself for my clothes. I put my book in -there, and I found a pencil in the machine drawer, and I put that by it. -I'd wanted to make the book for a long time, to set down thoughts in, -and keep track of the different things. But I didn't feel like making -the book any more by the time I got it all ready. I went to laying out -my underclothes in the drawer so's the lace edge would show on all of -'em that had it.</p> - -<p>Ma come to the side door and called me.</p> - -<p>"Cossy," she says, "is Luke comin' to-night?"</p> - -<p>"I s'pose so," I says.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, you go right straight over to Mis' Bingy's before he gets -here," Ma says.</p> - -<p>I went down the stairs—they had a blotched<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> carpet that I hated because -it looked like raw meat and gristle.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you go yourself?" I says.</p> - -<p>"Because Mis' Bingy'll be ashamed before me," she says; "but she won't -think you know about it. Take her this."</p> - -<p>I took the loaf of steam brown bread.</p> - -<p>"If Luke comes," I says, "have him walk along after me."</p> - -<p>The way to Mis' Bingy's was longer to go by the road, or short through -the wood-lot. I went by the road, because I thought maybe I might meet -somebody. The worst of the farm wasn't only the work. It was never -seein' anybody. I only met a few wagons, and none of 'em stopped to say -anything. Lena Curtsy went by, dressed up in black-and-white, with a -long veil. She looks like a circus rider, not only Sundays but every -day. But Luke likes the look of her, he said so.</p> - -<p>"You're goin' the wrong way, Cossy!" she calls out.</p> - -<p>"No, I ain't, either," I says, short enough. I can't bear the sight of -her. And yet, if I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> have anything to brag about, it's always her I want -to brag it to.</p> - -<p>Just when I turned off to Bingy's, I met the boys. We never waited -supper for 'em, because sometimes they get home and sometimes they -don't. They were coming from the end of the street-car line, black from -the blast furnace.</p> - -<p>"Where you goin', kid?" says Bert.</p> - -<p>I nodded to the house.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, tell her she'd better watch out for Bingy," says Henny. -"He's crazy drunk down to the Dew Drop. I wouldn't stay there if I was -her."</p> - -<p>I ran the rest of the way to the Bingy house. I went round to the back -door. Mis' Bingy was in the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the bed. She -had the bed put up in the kitchen when the baby was born, and she'd kept -it there all the year. When I stepped on to the boards, she jumped and -screamed.</p> - -<p>"Here's some steam brown bread," I says.</p> - -<p>She set down again, trembling all over. The baby was laying over back in -the bed, and it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> woke up and whimpered. Mis' Bingy kind of poored it -with one hand, and with the other she pushed up the bandage around her -head. She was big and wild-looking, and her hair was always coming down -in a long, coiled-up mess on her shoulders. Her hands looked worse than -Ma's.</p> - -<p>"I guess I look funny, don't I?" she says, trying to smile. "I cut my -head open some—by accident."</p> - -<p>I hate a lie. Not because it's wicked so much as because it never fools -anybody.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says, "I know that Mr. Bingy threw a dish at you last -night and cut your head open, because he was drunk. Well, I just met -Henny, and he says he's down to the Inn, crazy drunk. Henny don't want -you should stay here."</p> - -<p>She kind of give out, as though her spine wouldn't hold up. I guess she -had the idea none of the neighbors knew.</p> - -<p>"Where can I go?" she says.</p> - -<p>There was only one place that I could think of. "Come on over with me," -I says. "Pa<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> and the boys are there. They won't let him hurt you."</p> - -<p>She shook her head. "I'd have to come back some time," she says.</p> - -<p>"Why would you?" I asked her.</p> - -<p>She looked at me kind of funny.</p> - -<p>"He's my husband," she says—and she kind of straightened up and looked -dignified, without meaning to. I just stood and looked at her. Think of -it making her look like that to own that drunken coward for a husband!</p> - -<p>"What if he is?" I says. "He's a brute, and we all know it."</p> - -<p>She cried a little. "You hadn't ought to speak to me so," she says. "If -I go, how'll I earn my living, and the baby's?" she says.</p> - -<p>I hadn't thought of that. "That's so," I says. "You are tied, ain't -you?"</p> - -<p>I couldn't get her to come with me. She's got the bed made up in the -front room up-stairs, and she was going up there that night and lock her -door, and leave the kitchen open.</p> - -<p>"He may not be so bad," she says. "Maybe he'll be so drunk he'll tumble -on the bed asleep,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> or maybe he'll be sick. I always hope for one of -them."</p> - -<p>I went back through the wood-lot. It was so different out there from -home and Mis' Bingy's that it felt good. I found a place in a book once -that told about the woods. It gave me a nice feeling. I used to get it -out of the school library whenever it was in and read the place over, to -get the feeling again. Almost always it gave it to me. In the real woods -I didn't always get it. They come so close up to me that they bothered -me. I always thought I was going to get to something, and I never did. -And yet I always liked it in the wood-lot. And it was nice to be away -from home and from Mis' Bingy's.</p> - -<p>I forgot the whole bunch of 'em for a while. It was the night of a moon, -and you could see it in the trees, like a big fat face that was friends -with you. When a bird did just one note, it felt pleasant. After a while -I stopped still, because it seemed as if something was near to me; but I -wasn't scared, even if it was quite dark. I thought to myself that I -wisht<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> my family and all the folks I knew was still and kept to -themselves same as the trees does, instead of rushing at you every -minute, out loud. I never knew any folks that acted different from that, -though. Luke was just like that, too.</p> - -<p>I was thinking of this when I see him coming to meet me, down the path. -He ain't a big man, Luke.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Cossy," he says. "That you?"</p> - -<p>"Hello, Luke," I says. I dunno why it is—with the boys at home I can -joke. But Luke, he always makes me feel just plain. I just says "Hello, -Luke," and stood still, and waited for him to come up to me. He turned -and walked along beside me.</p> - -<p>"I was afraid I wouldn't meet you," he says. "I was afraid I'd miss you. -My, it's a good thing to get you somewheres by yourself."</p> - -<p>"Why?" I says.</p> - -<p>"Oh, the boys are always around, or your pa, or somebody. I've got a -right to talk to you sometimes by yourself."</p> - -<p>"Well, go ahead, then. Talk to me."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p><p>All of a sudden he stopped still in the path.</p> - -<p>"Do you mean that?" he ask.</p> - -<p>"Mean what?" I says. I couldn't think what he meant.</p> - -<p>"That I can talk to you now? My way?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says. I knew then. I guess I should have known before, if I'd -stopped to think. But someway I never could put my mind on Luke all the -time he was saying anything.</p> - -<p>"Cossy," he says, "I've tried to talk to you; you always got round it or -else somebody else come in. You know what I want."</p> - -<p>I didn't say anything. I sort of waited, not so much to see what he was -going to do as to see what I was going to do.</p> - -<p>Then he didn't say anything. But he put his arm around me, and put his -hand around my arm. I let him. I wasn't mad, so I didn't pretend.</p> - -<p>"Let's us sit down here," he says.</p> - -<p>We sat under a big tree and he drew my head down on his shoulder.</p> - -<p>"You're all kinds of a peach," he says,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> "that's what you are, Cossy—I -bet you've known for weeks I want you to marry me. Ain't you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I says, "I s'pose I have."</p> - -<p>He laughed. "You're a funny girl," he says.</p> - -<p>"It's silly to pretend," I says.</p> - -<p>"You bet," he says, "it's silly to pretend. Give me a kiss, then. Kiss -me yourself."</p> - -<p>I did. I had to see whether I was pretending not to want to, or whether -I really didn't want to. I see right away that I didn't want to.</p> - -<p>"Marry me, Cossy," he says. "Will you?"</p> - -<p>I was twenty years old. For a long time Ma had been asking me why I -didn't marry some nice young man. "Marry some nice young man," she says. -"You'll be happier, Cossy." Why would I be happier, I wondered. What -would make me happy? There would be, I supposed, a great deal of this -kind of thing. I thought it was honest to talk it over with Luke.</p> - -<p>"What for?" I says.</p> - -<p>"Because I love you," says Luke serious; "and I want you."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p><p>I laughed out loud. "Them's funny reasons for a bargain," I says.</p> - -<p>He kind of drew off. "Oh, well," he says, "it's all I've got. If you -don't think it amounts to anything—"</p> - -<p>"That's why you should marry me," I says. "But I want to know why I -should marry you."</p> - -<p>"Don't you love me?" says Luke.</p> - -<p>"I donno," I told him. "I don't like to kiss you so very well."</p> - -<p>"Cossy, listen," Luke said. "All that'll come. Honest, it will, dear. -Just trust me, and marry me. I need you."</p> - -<p>"Well, but, Luke," I says, "I donno if I need you. I don't believe I -do."</p> - -<p>"You listen here," he says, sort of mad. "You'll have a home of your -own—"</p> - -<p>"Why, wouldn't I live on your folks's farm?" I says.</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, yes," Luke says. "But—I love you, Cossy!" he ends up. "Can't -you understand? I love you."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p><p>He said it like the reason. I begun to think it was.</p> - -<p>"You've got to marry somebody," says Luke.</p> - -<p>I knew that well enough. Home was bad enough now, but when one of the -boys brought a wife there it would be worse. I'd have to marry somebody.</p> - -<p>"I'd like to get away from home," I says. "Ma and I don't get along, and -Pa's like a bear the whole time."</p> - -<p>"You'd ought not to say such things, Cossy," says Luke.</p> - -<p>"Why not?" I says. "They're true. That is about the only reason I can -think of why I should marry you. That, and because I've got to marry -somebody."</p> - -<p>I thought he'd be mad. Instead, he had his arms around me and was -kissing me.</p> - -<p>"I don't care what you marry me for," he says. "Marry me, anyhow!"</p> - -<p>I thought: "I s'pose I'd get used to him. I don't like the boys, either. -I can't bear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> Henny. Every girl seems to act as if it was all right, -after she gets away. Maybe it is."</p> - -<p>Two people were coming along the path. Luke and I sat still—it was so -dark nobody could notice us where we were. I heard them talking and then -I heard Ma's voice. I knew right off Henny had told her about Keddie, -and she was going to try to get Mis' Bingy to come home with us.</p> - -<p>" ... On my feet from morning till night," she was saying, "till it -seems as though I should drop. I don't know how I stand it."</p> - -<p>Pa was with her. "Stand it, stand it!" he says. "Anybody'd think you had -the pest in the house. I'm sick of hearin' you whine."</p> - -<p>"I know," says Ma, "nobody thinks I'm worth anything now. But after I'm -dead and gone—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, shut up," says Pa. And they went by us.</p> - -<p>I stood up, all of a sudden. Anything would be better than home.</p> - -<p>"Luke—" I says.</p> - -<p>In a few years maybe him and me would be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> talking the same as Ma and Pa. -Maybe he'd be hanging around the Dew Drop Inn, same as Keddie Bingy. -What of it? All women took the chance.</p> - -<p>"Luke," I says, "all right."</p> - -<p>"Do you mean you will?" says Luke. I liked him the best I'd ever liked -him, the way he says that.</p> - -<p>"I said 'all right,'" I says. "You be a good husband to me and I'll be a -good wife to you."</p> - -<p>Luke kind of scared me, he was so glad.</p> - -<p>On the way home he didn't talk much. As soon as we got to our house I -made him go. I'd begun to feel the tired way I do every time I'm with -him—as if I'd ironed or done up fruit.</p> - -<p>Ma and Pa hadn't come back yet. I went up to Ma's and my room and lit -the lamp. It was on a bracket, and stuck up behind it was a picture of -me when I was a baby. I just stood and stared at it. I hadn't thought of -it before—but what if Luke and I should have one?</p> - -<p>"No, sir! No, sir! No, sir!" I says, all the while I put myself to bed.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> - -<p>Toward morning I heard somebody scream. I was dreaming that I was with -Luke in the grove, and that he touched my hand, and that it was me that -screamed. I heard it again and again, with another noise. Then I woke -up. It wasn't me. It was somebody else.</p> - -<p>I sat up in bed and shook Ma. She snores, and I couldn't hardly wake -her. By the time she sat up I heard Pa move. When we got to the stairs I -heard him at the back door.</p> - -<p>"What's wanted?" I heard him say.</p> - -<p>"Quick, quick! Lemme in! Lemme in!" I heard from outside. I knew it was -Mis' Bingy. We got down-stairs just as Pa opened the door, and she come -in. Everything about her was blowing—her long hair and her outing -nightgown and the baby's shawl. She could hardly breathe, and she leaned -against the door and tried to lock it. I went and locked it for her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> -She sat down, and the baby was awake and crying, so she jounced it up -and down, without knowing she was doing it, while she told what was the -matter. She twisted up her hair, and I didn't think she knew she done -that, either. She had on a blue calico waist to a work dress, over her -nightgown, and her bare feet were in shoes, with the laces dangling. Ma -took one look at her, and went and put on the teakettle. She said -afterward she never knew she done that, either.</p> - -<p>Mis' Bingy told us what happened. She had been laying awake up-stairs -when he come home. He called her, and she didn't answer. Then he brought -a flatiron and beat at the door. Then he yelled that he'd bring the ax. -When he went for it, she slipped out of her bedroom and locked the door, -and hid in the closet under the stairs till she heard him run up 'em. -Then she started.</p> - -<p>"He'll kill me," she says. "He said he'd kill me. I've never known him -like this before."</p> - -<p>Pa come back from his room, part dressed.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p><p>"I'll go and get the constable," he says.</p> - -<p>"Oh," says Mis' Bingy, "don't arrest him! Don't do that!"</p> - -<p>"Lookin' for to be killed?" says Pa. "And us, too, for a-harborin' you -here?"</p> - -<p>She fell to crying then, and the baby cried. Mis' Bingy said things to -herself that we couldn't understand. Ma come and brought her a cup of -hot water with the tea that was left in the teapot poured in it. Ma had -a calico skirt around her shoulders, and she was in her bare feet.</p> - -<p>"He'll kill <i>you</i>," Ma says to Pa, "on your way to the constable. I -wouldn't go past that house for anything, to-night."</p> - -<p>I remember how anxious she looked at him. She was anxious, like Mis' -Bingy'd been when she said not to arrest Keddie.</p> - -<p>Pa muttered, but he didn't go out. In a little while, Ma said best get -some rest, so we went up to the room again, and took Mis' Bingy. Her and -Ma laid down on the bed, and I got the canvas cot that was folded up in -there. My feet stuck out, and I couldn't go<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> to sleep. But the funny -thing to me was that both Ma and Mis' Bingy went to sleep in a little -while.</p> - -<p>I laid there, waiting for it to get light. The window was a little bit -gray, and off in the wood-lot I could hear a bird wake up and go to -sleep again. I liked it. Early in the morning always seemed to me like -some other time. Things acted as if they was something else. Even the -bureau looked different.... Pretty soon the sky changed, and the dark -was thin enough so I could see Ma and Mis' Bingy. Ma's light-colored -hair had got all around her face. I thought how young she looked asleep. -She looked so little and soft. She looked as if she'd be nice. I guess -she would have been if she hadn't had so much to do. I never remembered -her when she didn't have too much to do, except once when she broke her -arm; and her arm hurt her so that she was cross anyway. Once, when the -boys bought her a plaid silk, she was nice for two days; but then -wash-day come and spoiled it again, and she couldn't get back.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p><p>Ma never had much. I don't believe any of us know her like she'd be if -she had things to do with, and didn't have to work so hard, and Pa and -the boys wasn't all the time picking on her. They all say mean things. I -do, too, of course. I always dread our meals. We don't scrap over -anything particular, but everything that comes up, somebody's always got -some lip to answer back. And Ma's easy teased and always looking for -slaps. That's me, too; I'm easy teased, though I don't look for it. -Laying there asleep, Ma seemed like somebody I didn't know, and I felt -sorry for her. She was having a rotten life.</p> - -<p>And Mis' Bingy. The bandage was off her head, and I saw the big red -mark. She was awful thin and blue-looking, with cords in her neck. She -was young, not more than thirty. Ma was old; Ma was forty, and, awake, -she looked it. I could see Mis' Bingy's bare arm, and it was strong as -an ox. It laid around the baby, that was sleeping on her chest. I liked -to look at it. But I thought about her life, too, and I wondered how -either Ma or her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> kept going at all. And what made them willing to. -Neither of 'em was having a real life. Look what love had brought them -to....</p> - -<p><i>And there was me, starting in the same way, with Luke.</i></p> - -<p>It was broad daylight by then, so I could see around the room. There -wasn't a carpet, and the plaster was cracked. So was the pitcher, that -was just for show, anyhow, because we washed in the kitchen. I'd tried -to fill it for a while, but Ma said it was putting on. In a little bit -we would all be sprucing up in the kitchen, with Ma trying to get -breakfast and everybody yipping out at everybody else.</p> - -<p><i>And I'd just fixed it so's that all my life would be the same thing as -their lives.</i></p> - -<p>I slipped out of bed and began to dress. It wasn't Sunday, but I opened -the drawer where my underclothes were, and took out them that had lace -edging. I put on my best shoes and my white stockings. Then I went out -in the hall closet and got down my new muslin that I'd worn only once -that summer, and I took it over my arm and went down in the kitchen.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> -When I was all ready I went through the door that opened stillest, and -outdoors.</p> - -<p>Out there was as different as if it didn't belong. You thought of the -fresh smell of it before you thought of anything else. Nothing about it -had been used. And the thin sunshine come right at you, slanting. Over -the porch the morning-glories were all out. I pulled off a whole great -vine of 'em and put it around my neck. Then I ran. I wasn't going to go -anywheres or do anything. But I was clean and dressed up, and outdoors -was just as good as anybody else has.</p> - -<p>I went down the road toward the sun. It seemed as if I must be going -toward something else, better than all I knew. I felt as if I was a -person, living like persons live. I wondered why I hadn't done this -every morning. I wondered why everybody didn't do it. I kind of wanted -to be doing it together with somebody. Everybody I knew done things so -separate. I wisht everybody was with me.</p> - -<p>I wanted to sing. So I did—the first thing that come into my head. I -put my head back,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> so's I could see the two rows of the trees ahead, -almost meeting, and the thick blue between them. And then I sung the -first thing that come into my head, and I sung it to the top of my -voice:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"O Mother dear, Jerusalem,</div> -<div class="i1">When shall I come to Thee?</div> -<div>When shall my sorrows have an end?</div> -<div class="i1">Thy joys when shall I see?</div> -<div class="i2">O happy harbor of God's saints!</div> -<div class="i1">O sweet and pleasant soil!</div> -<div>In thee no sorrow can be found,</div> -<div class="i1">Nor grief nor care nor toil."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And when I got to the end of the verse somebody said:</p> - -<p>"I don't believe you can possibly mind if I thank you for that?"</p> - -<p>The man must have been sitting by the road, because he was right there -beside me, standing still, with his hat in his hand.</p> - -<p>I says, "I can't sing. I just done that for fun."</p> - -<p>"That's what was so delightful," he says. And then he says, "Are you -going to the village? May I walk along with you?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p><p>"No, I ain't going to town," I says. "I ain't going anywheres much. But -you can walk where you want to. The road's free."</p> - -<p>He walked side of me. I looked at him. He was good-looking. He was so -clean—that was the first thing I noticed about him. Clean, and sort of -brown and pink, with nothing more on his face than was on mine, and yet -he looked manly. He was big. He had a wide way with his shoulders, and -he held his head nice. I liked to look at him, so I did look.</p> - -<p>And all at once I says to myself, What did I care so I got some fun out -of it. Other girls was always doing this. Lena Curtsy would have talked -with him in a minute. Maybe I could get him to ask me to go to a show. I -couldn't go, but I thought I'd like to make him ask me.</p> - -<p>"Was you lonesome?" I ask', looking at him.</p> - -<p>He didn't say anything. He just looked at me, smiling a little. I -thought I'd better say a little more. I wanted him to know I wasn't a -stick, but that I was in for fun, like a city girl.</p> - -<p>"You don't look like a chap that'd be <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>lonesome very long," I says. "Not -if you can get acquainted <i>this</i> easy."</p> - -<p>He kept looking at me, and smiling a little.</p> - -<p>"Tell me," he says, "do you live about here?"</p> - -<p>"Me? Right here. I'm the original Maud Muller," I says.</p> - -<p>"And what do you do besides rake hay?" he says.</p> - -<p>I couldn't think what else Maud Muller done. I hadn't read it since -Fifth Reader. So I says:</p> - -<p>"Well, she don't often get a chance to talk with traveling gentlemen."</p> - -<p>"That's good," he says, "but—I wouldn't have thought it."</p> - -<p>I see he meant because I done it so easy and ready, so I give him as -good as he sent.</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't <i>you</i>?" I says. "Well, I s'pose you get a chance to flirt with -strange girls every town you strike."</p> - -<p>He looked at me again, not smiling now, but just awfully interested. I -see I was interesting him down to the ground. Lena Curtsy couldn't have -done it better.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p><p>"Flirt," he says over. "What do you mean by 'flirt'?"</p> - -<p>I laughed at him. "You're a pretty one to ask that," I says, "with them -eyes."</p> - -<p>"Oh," he says serious, "then you like my eyes?"</p> - -<p>"I never said so," I gave him. "Do you like mine?"</p> - -<p>"Let me look at them," he said.</p> - -<p>We stopped in the road, and I looked him square in the eye. I can look -anybody in the eye. I looked at him straight, till he laughed and moved -on. He seemed to be thinking about something.</p> - -<p>"I think I like you best when you sing," he said. "Won't you sing -something else?"</p> - -<p>"Sure," I says, and wheeled around in the road, and kind of skipped -backward. And I sung:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Oh, oh, oh, oh! Pull down the blinds!</div> -<div>When they hear the organ play-ing</div> -<div>They won't know what we are say-ing.</div> -<div>Pull down the blinds!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>I'd heard it to the motion-picture show the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> week before. I was thankful -he could see I was up on the nice late tunes.</p> - -<p>"I wonder," says the man, "if you can tell me something. I wonder if you -can tell me what made you pick out this song to sing to me, and what -made you sing that other song when you were alone?"</p> - -<p>All at once the morning come back. Ever since I met him I'd forgot the -morning and the sun, and the way I'd felt when I started out alone. I'd -just been thinking about myself, and about how I could make him think I -was cute and up-to-date. Now it was just as if the country road opened -up again, and there I was on it, opposite the Dew Drop Inn, just being -me. I looked up at him.</p> - -<p>"Honest," I says, "I don't know. I guess it was because I wanted you to -think I was fun."</p> - -<p>He looked at me for a minute, straight and deep.</p> - -<p>"By Jove!" he says, and I didn't know what ailed him. "Have you had -breakfast?" he ask', short.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p><p>"No," I says.</p> - -<p>"You come in here with me and get some," he says, like an order.</p> - -<p>He led the way into the yard of the Dew Drop Inn. There's a grape arbor -there, and some bare hard dirt, and two or three tables. Nobody was -there, only the boy, sweeping the dirt with a broom. We sat down at the -table in the arbor. It was pleasant to be there. A house wren was -singing his head off somewhere near. A woman come out and sloshed water -on the stone at the back door and begun scrubbing. A clock in the bar -struck six.</p> - -<p>Joe Burkey, that keeps the Inn, come out and nodded to me.</p> - -<p>"Joe," I says, "did Keddie Bingy come back here?"</p> - -<p>Joe wiped his hands on the cloth on his arm, and then brushed his -mustache with it, and then wiped off the table with it.</p> - -<p>"I don't know nothin' about K. Bingy," says Joe. "I t'run him out o' my -place last night, neck <i>and</i> crop, for bein' drunk and disorderly. I -ain't seen him since."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p><p>I looked up at Joe's little eyes. They looked like the eyes of the wolf -in the picture in our dining-room. Joe's got a fat chin, and a fat -smile, but his eyes don't match them.</p> - -<p>"You coward and you brute," I says to him, "where did Keddie Bingy <i>get</i> -drunk and disorderly?"</p> - -<p>Joe begun to sputter and to step around in new places. The man I was -with brought his hand down on the table.</p> - -<p>"Never mind that," he says, "what you've to do is bring some breakfast. -What will you have for your breakfast, mademoiselle?" he says to me.</p> - -<p>"Why," I says, "some salt pork and some baking powder biscuit for me, -and some fried potatoes and a piece of some kind of pie. What kind have -you got?"</p> - -<p>"Apple and raisin," says Joe, sulky. But the man I was with he says:</p> - -<p>"Suppose you let me order our breakfast. Will you?"</p> - -<p>"Suit yourself, I'm sure," says I. "I ain't used to the best."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p><p>The man thought a minute.</p> - -<p>"Back there a little way," he says, "I crossed something that looked -like a trout stream. Is it a trout stream?"</p> - -<p>"Sure," says Joe and I together.</p> - -<p>"How long," says the man, "would it take that boy there to bring in a -small catch?"</p> - -<p>"My!" I says, "he can do that quicker'n a cat can lick his eye. Can't -he, Joe?"</p> - -<p>"Very well," says the man. "We will have brook trout for breakfast. Make -a lemon butter for them, please, and use good butter. With that bring us -some toast, very thin, very brown and very hot, with more good butter. -Have you some orange marmalade?"</p> - -<p>"Sure," says Joe, "but it costs thirty cents a jar; I open the whole—"</p> - -<p>"Some orange marmalade," says the man. "And coffee—I wonder what that -good woman there would say to letting me make the coffee?"</p> - -<p>"Her? She'll do whatever I tell her," says Joe. "But we charge extra -when guests got to make their own coffee."</p> - -<p>"And now," says the man, getting through<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> with that, "what can you bring -us while we wait? Some peaches?"</p> - -<p>"The orchard," says Joe, "is rotten wid peaches."</p> - -<p>"Good," says the man. "Now we understand each other. If mademoiselle -will excuse me, we will set the coffee on its way."</p> - -<p>I set and waited, thinking how funny it was for a man to make the -coffee. All Pa ever done in his life to help about the cooking was to -clean the fish.</p> - -<p>I went and played with a kitten, so's not to have to talk to Joe. I -didn't know what I might say to him. When I come back the table was laid -with a nice clean cloth and napkins that were ironed good and dishes -with little flowers on. When the woman come out to the well, I ask' her -if I could pick some phlox for the table. She laughed and said yes, if I -wanted to. So I got some, all pink. I was just bringing it when the man -come back.</p> - -<p>"Stand there, just for a minute," he says.</p> - -<p>I done like he told me, by the door of the arbor. I thought he was going -to say <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>something nice, and I hoped I'd think of something smart and -sassy to say back to him. But all he says was just:</p> - -<p>"Thank you. Now, come and sit down, please."</p> - -<p>We fixed the flowers. Then Joe brought a basket of beautiful peaches, -and we took what we wanted. The man took one, and sat touching it with -the tips of his fingers, and he looked over at me with a nice smile.</p> - -<p>"And now, my child," he says, "tell me your name."</p> - -<p>I always hate to tell folks my name. In the village they've always made -fun of it.</p> - -<p>"What do you want to bother with that for?" I says. "Ain't I good enough -without a tag?"</p> - -<p>He spoke almost sharp. "I want you to tell me your name," he says.</p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i045.jpg" alt="I want you to tell me your name, he said" /></div> - -<p class="bold">"I want you to tell me your name," he said</p> - -<p>So I told him. "Cosma Wakely," I says.</p> - -<p>He looked funny. "Really?" he says. "<i>Cosma?</i>"</p> - -<p>"But everybody calls me 'Cossy,'" I says<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> quick. "I know what a funny -name it is. My grandmother named me. She was queer."</p> - -<p>"<i>Cossy!</i>" he says over. "Why, Cosma is perfect."</p> - -<p>"You're kiddin' me," I says. "Don't you think I don't know it."</p> - -<p>He didn't say he wasn't.</p> - -<p>"Ain't you going to tell me your name?" I says. "Not that I s'pose -you'll tell me the right one. They never do."</p> - -<p>"My name," he says, "is John Ember."</p> - -<p>"On the square?" I asked him.</p> - -<p>"Yes," he says. He was a funny man. He didn't have a bit of come-back. -He took you just plain. He reminded me of the way I acted with Luke. But -usually I could jolly like the dickens.</p> - -<p>"You travel, I guess," I says. "What do you travel for?"</p> - -<p>He laughed. "If I understand you," he said, "you are asking me what my -line is?"</p> - -<p>I nodded. I'd just put the pit in my mouth, so I couldn't guess -something sassy, like pickles.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p><p>"I have no line," he says. "It's an area."</p> - -<p>"Huh?" I says—on account of the pit.</p> - -<p>"I travel," says he, "for the human race. But they don't know it."</p> - -<p>"Sure," I says, when I had it swallowed, "you got to sell to everybody, -I know that. But what do you sell 'em?"</p> - -<p>He shook his head.</p> - -<p>"I don't sell it," he says. "They won't buy it. I shall always be a -philanthropist. The commodity," says he, "is books."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" I says. "A book agent! I'd have taken you for a regular salesman."</p> - -<p>"I tell you I <i>don't</i> sell 'em," he says. "Nobody will buy. I just write -'em."</p> - -<p>I put down my other peach and looked at him.</p> - -<p>"An author?" I says. "You?"</p> - -<p>"Thank you," says he, "for believing me. Nobody else will. Now don't -let's talk about that. Do you mind telling me something about yourself?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "I've got a book all made out of wrapping paper. It ain't -wrote yet, it's in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> the bottom drawer. But I'm going to write one."</p> - -<p>"Good!" he says. "Tell me about that, too."</p> - -<p>I don't know what made me, except the surprise of finding that he was -what he was, instead of a traveling man. But the first thing I knew I -was telling him about me; how I'd stopped school when I was fourteen, -and had worked out for a little while in town; and then when the boys -got the job in the blast furnace, I came home to help Ma. I told him how -the only place I'd ever been, besides the village, was to the city, -twice. Only two things I didn't tell him at first—about what home was -like, and about Luke. But he got them both out of me. Because I wound up -what I was telling him with something I thought was the thing to say. -Lena Curtsy always said it.</p> - -<p>"I've just been living at home for four years now," I said. "I s'pose -it's the place for a girl."</p> - -<p>I remember how calm and slow he was when he answered.</p> - -<p>"Why no," he says. "Your home is about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> the last place in the world a -girl of your age ought to be."</p> - -<p>"What do you know about my home?" I asked him quick.</p> - -<p>"I don't mean your home," he says. "I mean any home, if it's your -parents' home. If you can't be in school, why aren't you out by this -time doing some useful work of your own?"</p> - -<p>"Work," I says. "I do work. I work like a dog."</p> - -<p>"I don't mean doing your family's work," he said. "I mean doing your own -work. Of course you're not going to tell me you're happy?"</p> - -<p>"No," I says, "I ain't happy. I hate my work. I hate the kind of a home -I live in. It's Bedlam, the whole time. I'm going to get married to get -out of it."</p> - -<p>"So you are going to be married," he says. "What's the man like—do you -mind telling me that?"</p> - -<p>I told him about Luke, just the way he is. While I talked he was eating -his peaches. I'd<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> been through with mine quite a while now, so I noticed -him eat his. He done it kind of with the tips of his fingers. I liked to -watch him. He sort of broke the peach. The juice didn't run down. I -remembered how I must have et mine, and I felt ashamed.</p> - -<p>Before I was all through about Luke, Joe come in with the trout, and -some thin, crispy potatoes on the platter, and the toast and the -marmalade; and Mr. Ember went to see about the coffee. He brought it out -himself, and poured it himself—and it smelled like something I'd never -smelled before. And now, when he begun to eat, I watched him. I broke my -toast, like he done. I used my fork on the trout, like him, and I -noticed he took his spoon out of his cup, and I done that, too, though -I'd got so I could drink from a cup without a handle and hold the spoon -with my finger, like the boys done. I kept tasting the coffee, too, -instead of drinking it off at once, even when it was hot, like I'd -learned the trick of. I didn't know but his way just happened to be his -way, but I wanted to make sure. Anyway,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> I never smack my lips, and Luke -and the boys do that.</p> - -<p>"Now," he said, "while we enjoy this very excellent breakfast, will you -do me the honor to let me tell you a little something about me?"</p> - -<p>I don't see what honor that would be, and I said so. And then he told me -things.</p> - -<p>I'm sorry that I can't put them down. It was wonderful. It was just like -a story the teacher tells you when you're little and not too old for -stories. It turned out he'd been to Europe and to Asia. He'd done things -that I never knew there was such things. But he didn't talk about him, -he just talked about the things and the places. I forgot to eat. It -seemed so funny that I, Cossy Wakely, should be listening to somebody -that had done them things. He said something about a volcano.</p> - -<p>"A volcano!" I says. "Do they have them <i>now</i>? I thought that was only -when the geography was."</p> - -<p>"But the geography <i>is</i>, you know," he says. "It is now."</p> - -<p>"Did that big flat book all mean now?" I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> says. "I thought it meant long -ago. I had a picture of the Ark and the flood and the Temple, and when -the stars fell—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, the fools!" he says to himself; but I didn't know who he meant, and -I was pretty sure he must mean me.</p> - -<p>All the while we were having breakfast, he talked with me. When it was -over, and he'd paid the bill—I tried my best to see how much it was, so -as to tell Lena Curtsy, but I couldn't—he turned around to me and he -says:</p> - -<p>"The grass is not wet this morning. It's high summer. Will you walk with -me up to the top of that hill over there in the field? I want to show -you the whole world."</p> - -<p>"Sure," I says. "But you can't see much past Twiney's pasture from that -little runt of a hill."</p> - -<p>We climbed the fence. He put his hand on a post and vaulted the wire as -good as the boys could have done. When he turned to help me, I was just -doing the same thing. Then it come over me that maybe an author wouldn't -think that was ladylike.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p><p>"I always do them that way," I says, kind of to explain.</p> - -<p>"Is there any other way?" says he.</p> - -<p>"No!" says I, and we both laughed. It was nice to laugh with him, and it -was the first time we'd done it together.</p> - -<p>The field was soft and shiny. There was pretty cobwebs. Everything -looked new and glossy.</p> - -<p>"Great guns!" I says. "Ain't it nice out here?"</p> - -<p>"That's exactly what I've been thinking," says he.</p> - -<p>We went along still for a little ways. It come to me that maybe, if I -could only say some of the things that moved around on the outside of my -head, he might like them. But I couldn't get them together enough.</p> - -<p>"It makes you want to think nice thoughts," I says, by and by.</p> - -<p>"Doesn't it?" he says, with his quick, straight look. "And when it does, -then you do."</p> - -<p>"I don't know enough," I says. "I wisht I did."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p><p>I'll never, never forget when we come to the top of the little hill. He -stood there with nothing but the sky, blue as fury, behind him.</p> - -<p>"Now look," he says. "There's New York, over there."</p> - -<p>"You can't see New York from here!" I says. "Not with no specs that was -ever invented."</p> - -<p>He went right on. "Down there," he says, "are St. Louis and Cincinnati -and New Orleans. Across there is Chicago. And away on there are two days -of desert—two days, by express train!—and then mountains and a green -coast, and San Francisco and the Pacific. And then all the things we -talked about this morning: Japan and India and the Alps and London and -Rome and the Nile."</p> - -<p>I wondered what on earth he was driving at.</p> - -<p>"Which do you want to do," says he, "go there, and try to find these -places? You won't find them, you know. But at least, you'll know they're -in the world. Or live down there in a little farm-house like that one -and slave for Luke?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p><p>"But I can't even try to find them places," I says. "How could I?"</p> - -<p>"Maybe not," he says. "Maybe not. I don't say you could. All I mean is -this, Why not think of your life as if you have really been born, and -not as if you were waiting to be born?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "don't you s'pose I've thought of that? But I can't get -away."</p> - -<p>"Yes, you can," he says, looking at me, earnest. "Yes, you can. If you -just say the word."</p> - -<p>I was as tall as he was, and I looked right at him, with all the -strength I had.</p> - -<p>"Do you think," I says, "that because I'm from the country I ain't on to -all such talk as that? Do you think I don't know what them kind of -hold-outs means? We ain't such fools as you think we are, not since -Hattie Duffy thought she was going to Paris, and ended in the bottom of -a pond. They's only one way any of us ever gets to see any of them -things, and don't you think we're fooled unless we want to be. No, sir. -We ain't that fresh."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p><p>He scared me the way he whirled round at me.</p> - -<p>"You miserable little creature!" he said. "What are you talking about?"</p> - -<p>"Well," I says, "don't you ever think I—"</p> - -<p>Then he done a funny thing. He drew a deep breath, and took his hat off -and looked up at the sky and off over the fields.</p> - -<p>"After all," he said, "thank God this is the way you are beginning to -take it! When a country girl can protect herself like that, it is -growing safe for her to be born. Listen to me, child," he says.</p> - -<p>He had me puzzled for fair by then. I just listened.</p> - -<p>"Just now," he says, "I called you a miserable little creature. That was -because you quite naturally mistook me for one of the wretched hunters -whom women have been trying to evade since the beginning. Well, I was -wrong to call you that. Instead, I applaud your magnificent ability to -take care of yourself. I applaud even more in the incident—but I won't -bother you with that."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p><p>I kept trying to see what he meant.</p> - -<p>"Now you must," he said, "try to understand me. What I meant to say to -you was that with the whole world to choose from, you are, in my -opinion, quite wrong to settle down here to your farm and your Luke and -the drudgery you say you loathe, without ever giving yourself a chance -to choose at all. Perhaps you would come back and settle here because -you wanted to.... I hope you would do that, under somewhat different -conditions. But don't settle here because you're trapped and can't get -out."</p> - -<p>"But I can't get out—" I was beginning, but he went on:</p> - -<p>"I know perfectly well that a great part of the world would think that I -ought not to be talking to you like that. They would say that you are -'safe' here. That you and Luke would have a quiet, contented life. But I -care nothing at all for such safety. I think that unreasonable -contentment leads to various kinds of damnation. If you were an ordinary -girl I should not be talking to you like this. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> should not have the -courage—yet; not while life treats women as it treats them now. But in -spite of your vulgarity, you are a remarkable woman."</p> - -<p>"In spite of <i>what</i>?" I says.</p> - -<p>"I mean it," he says, "and you must let me tell you, because you seem to -be, in all but one thing, a fine straightforward creature. But in the -way you treat men, you <i>are</i> vulgar, you know. Not hopelessly, just -deplorably. Now tell me the truth. Why did you pretend to flirt with me? -For that isn't your natural manner. You put it on. Why did you do that?"</p> - -<p>I could tell him that well enough.</p> - -<p>"Why," I says, "I guess it was the same as the singing. I wanted you to -know I wasn't a stick. I wanted you to think I was lively and fun. It's -the way the girls do. I can't do it as good as they do, I know that."</p> - -<p>"Promise me," he says, "that if ever you do get out, you'll be the fine -and straightforward one—not the other one."</p> - -<p>"I shan't get out," I says. "I can't get out."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p><p>"'I can't get out,'" he says over. "'I can't get out.' It's a great -mistake. If you feel it in you to get out, then you'll get out. That's -the answer."</p> - -<p>"I do," I says. "I always have. I wake up in the mornings...."</p> - -<p>I'll never know what it was that come over me. But all of a sudden, the -me that laid awake nights and thought, and the me that had come out in -the sun that morning was the only me I had, and it could talk.</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "don't you think I'm the way I seemed back there on the -road. I'm different; but I'm the only one that knows that. I like nice -things. I'd like to act nice. I'd like to be the way I could be. But -there ain't enough of me to be that way. And I don't know what to do."</p> - -<p>He took both my hands.</p> - -<p>"And I don't know what you're to do," he said. "That is the part you -must find for yourself. It's like dying—yet a while, till they get us -going."</p> - -<p>We stood still for a minute. And then I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> saw what I hadn't seen -before—what a grand face he had. He wasn't like the handsome men on -calendars or on cigar boxes, or on the signs. He was like somebody else -I hadn't ever seen before. His face wasn't young at all, but it looked -glad, and that made it seem young.</p> - -<p>"I wish you wouldn't ever go way," I says.</p> - -<p>"I ought to be miles from here at this moment," he says. "Now see here -... I want to give you these."</p> - -<p>He took two cards out of his pocket, and wrote on them.</p> - -<p>"This one is mine," he says. "If you do come to the city, you are surely -to let me know that you are there. And if you take this other card to -this address here, this gentleman may be able to give you work. Now -good-by. I'm going to cut through the meadow, and I suppose you'll be -going back."</p> - -<p>He put out his hand.</p> - -<p>"Don't go," I says. "Don't go. I shan't ever find anybody to talk to -again."</p> - -<p>"That's part of your job, you know," he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> says. "Remember you <i>have</i> a -job. Good-by, child."</p> - -<p>He went off down the slope. At the foot of it he stopped.</p> - -<p>"Cosma!" he shouts, "don't ever let them call you anything else, you -know!"</p> - -<p>"I won't," I says. "Honest, I won't, Mr. Ember."</p> - -<p>I watched him just as far as I could see him. On the road he turned and -waved his hand. When he was out of sight I started to go back home. But -when I see things again, I'll never forget the lonesomeness. Things was -like a sucked-out sack. I laid down in the grass—I haven't cried since -the last time Pa whipped me, six years ago, but I thought I was going to -cry now. Then I happened to think that was the way I'd have done before -I met him; but it wasn't the way I must do now. Instead, I got up on to -my feet and I started for home on the run. It was like something was -starting somewheres, and I <i>had</i> to hurry.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> - -<p>Mother was scrubbing the well-house.</p> - -<p>"Cossy Wakely," she says, "where you been?"</p> - -<p>"Walking," I says.</p> - -<p>"Walking!" says she; "with all I got to do. I should think you'd be -ashamed of yourself. My land, what you got on your best clothes for?"</p> - -<p>"Mother," I says, "you call me 'Cosma' after this, will you?"</p> - -<p>She stared at me. "Such airs," she says. "And callin' me 'Mother.' Who -you been with? What you rigged out like that for?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't dress up for anybody," I says, "only because I wanted to."</p> - -<p>"Such a young one as you've turned out," says she. "What's to become of -you I don't know. Wait till your Pa comes in—I'll tell him."</p> - -<p>"Mother," I says, "I'm twenty years old.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> You call me 'Cosma,' and let -me call you 'Mother.' And don't feel you have to scold me all the time."</p> - -<p>"I'll quit scolding you fast enough," she says, "when you quit deserving -it. Go and get out of them togs, the dishes are waiting for you."</p> - -<p>I went in the house. Mis' Bingy was not there, up-stairs or down. I went -back to the door and asked about her.</p> - -<p>"Why, she's gone home," says Mother. "You didn't s'pose she was going to -live here, did you?"</p> - -<p>"Home?" I says. "Where that man is?"</p> - -<p>"We can't all pick out our homes," she says, scrubbing the boards.</p> - -<p>Pa heard her. He was just coming in from the barn with the swill buckets -to fill.</p> - -<p>"That's you," he says, "finding fault with the hands that feeds you. -Where'd you be, I'd like to know, if it wasn't for this home and me? In -the poorhouse."</p> - -<p>Mother straightened up on her knees by the well.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p><p>"Mean to say I don't pay my keep?" she says.</p> - -<p>For a minute she seemed young and somebody, like when she was asleep.</p> - -<p>"Not when you dish up such pickings as you done this morning," says Pa.</p> - -<p>She screamed out something at him, and I ran across the yard toward Mis' -Bingy's. They were going on so hard they forgot about me.</p> - -<p>The grove was still. I wished <i>he</i> could have seen it. As soon as I got -in it, I forgot about home, and the time before come back on me, like -some of me singing. That was it—some of me singing. But I see right off -the grove was different. It was almost as if he <i>had</i> been in it, and -had showed me things about it. I begun looking out at it the way I -thought he'd be looking at it. There seemed to be more of the grove than -I thought there was. Then I thought how he'd never be there in it, and -how I'd prob'ly never see him again, and something in me hurt, and I -didn't want to go on. What was the use?... What was the use?... What was -the use?...</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p><p>Mis' Bingy's house lay all still in the sun. The sunflowers and -hollyhocks by the back door and the chickens picking around looked all -peaceful and like home. I thought Mr. Bingy must be sleeping off his -drunk, and her keeping quiet not to disturb him.</p> - -<p>The kitchen door was standing open and I stepped up on the porch. And -then I heard a terrible cry, from right there in the room.</p> - -<p>"Go back—back, Cossy!" Mis' Bingy said. "He'll kill you!"</p> - -<p>All in an instant I took it in. She was sitting crouched on the bed, -shielding the baby with a pillow. And he set close beside the door, -sharpening his hatchet.</p> - -<p>He jumped up when he see me. I remember his red eyes and his teeth, and -his thin whiskers that showed his chin through. Then he sprang forward, -right toward me and on to me, with his hatchet in his hand.</p> - -<p>I donno how I done it. For no reason, I guess, only that I'm big and -strong and he was little and pindling. I know I never stopped to think -or decide nothing. I dodged his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> hatchet and I jumped at him. I threw my -whole strength at him, with my hands on his face and his throat. He went -down like a log, because I was so much bigger and so strong. But that -wouldn't have saved us, only that, as he fell, he hit his head on the -sharp corner of the cook stove. He rolled over on his back, and the -hatchet flew out on the zinc.</p> - -<p>"You killed him!" Mis' Bingy says. She sat up, but she didn't go to him.</p> - -<p>"We ain't no time to think of that," I says. "Get your things and come."</p> - -<p>She didn't ask anything. She took the baby and run right and got a -bundle of things she'd got ready. I see then that she had on her best -black dress, and the baby was all dressed clean and embroidered. I -picked up the hatchet, and we went out the door, and shut it behind us. -She never looked back, even when we got to the door; and I noticed that, -because it wasn't like Mis' Bingy, that's soft and frightened.</p> - -<p>"I don't mind what he done to me," she said, "but just now he took the -baby—and touched her hand—to the hot griddle."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p><p>She showed me.</p> - -<p>"I hope he's dead," I said.</p> - -<p>"Where shall I go?" she says. "My God, where shall I go?"</p> - -<p>"Ain't you no folks?" I asked her.</p> - -<p>"Not near enough so's I've got the fare," she says. "Anyhow, I don't -want to come on to them."</p> - -<p>We was in the grove at the time. I donno as it would have come to me so -quick if we hadn't been there.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says, "let's us go to the city together, you and me. And -find a job."</p> - -<p>I thought she'd draw back. But she just stopped still in the path and -looked at me round the baby's head.</p> - -<p>"You couldn't do that, could you?" she says.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I says. "I didn't know it before, but I know it now. I could do -that."</p> - -<p>She kep' on looking at me, with something coming in her face.</p> - -<p>"You couldn't go to-day, could you?" she says.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p><p>I hadn't thought of to-day, but the thing was on me then.</p> - -<p>"Why not to-day as good as any day?" I says.</p> - -<p>"Your Ma—" she says.</p> - -<p>"This is different," I says. "This is for me to do."</p> - -<p>We come to the edge of the grove, and across the open lot I could see -Mother. She was spreading out her scrubbing cloth on the grass to dry. I -went up to her, and I wasn't scared nor I didn't dread anything because -I was so sure.</p> - -<p>"Mother," I says, "Mis' Bingy and I are going up to the city together to -get some work. And we're goin' to-day. But first I've got to go and find -somebody. I donno but I've killed Mr. Bingy."</p> - -<p>I don't remember all the things she said. All of a sudden, my head was -full of other things that stood out sharp, and I couldn't take in what -was going on all around, not with what I had to think about. Mis' Bingy -sat down by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> the well-house and went to nursing the baby, and Mother -stood up before her asking her things. I left 'em so, and ran down the -road to the Inn. That was the nearest place I could get anybody.</p> - -<p>It was about ten o'clock in the morning by that time. All this had -happened to me before it was time to get the potatoes ready for dinner. -I remember thinking that as I run. There was the Inn—and Joe was out -wiping off the tables in the yard, with the same dirty cloth, and -straightening up the chairs.</p> - -<p>"Joe," I says, "I ain't sure, but I think I've hurt Mr. Bingy pretty -bad. Is there somebody can go up to their house and see?"</p> - -<p>Joe stared, his thick, red, open lips and his red tongue looking more -surprised than his little wolf eyes.</p> - -<p>"What?" he says.</p> - -<p>When I'd made him know, he got two men from the field and they run up -the road toward Bingy's. On the Inn window-sill was the same kitten I'd -played with while I was waiting for the coffee. I went and got it and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> -sat down at the table where we'd been. It seemed a day since I was -there. I seemed like somebody else. For the first time I wondered what -would be if Keddie Bingy was dead. But it wasn't the being arrested or -stood up in the court room or locked in jail that I thought of, and it -wasn't Keddie at all. All I kept thinking was:</p> - -<p>"If Keddie's dead, I won't never see <i>him</i> again."</p> - -<p>I sat there going over that, and holding the kitten. It was a nice -little kitten that looked up in my face more helpless than anything but -a baby, or a bird, or a puppy. I felt kind of like some such helpless -things. The world wasn't like what I thought it was. More things -happened to you than I ever knew could happen. I always thought they -happened just to other folks. The tables and the bare, swept dirt didn't -look as if anything was happening anywheres near them, and yet down the -road maybe was a dead man that I'd killed. And a mile and more away by -now <i>he</i> was, and a little bit ago he'd been here, and the me that set<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> -there with him had been somebody else. And the me that had been awake -before daybreak that morning probably wouldn't ever be me at all, any -more. Everything was different forever. I saw something on the ground, -down by the arbor. It was the pink phlox I had picked. They threw it -away when they wanted to wash the glass. It seemed so helpless, laying -there without any water. I went and got it and put it on my dress.</p> - -<p>Pretty soon I heard them coming back, talking. Joe and one of the men -come in sight, and Joe sung out:</p> - -<p>"It's all right. He's groaning. Ben's gone for a doctor. What happened?"</p> - -<p>I told 'em; but I wanted to get away.</p> - -<p>"Well, shave my bones," Joe says, "if you ain't the worst I ever see. -Why didn't you leave the woman knock down her own man?"</p> - -<p>"Why didn't you leave her get him drunk?" I says. "If I'd have killed -him, it'd been you that murdered him, Joe."</p> - -<p>"Now, look here," says Joe, "I'm a-carrying on an honest business. If a -man goes for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> to make a fool of himself, is that my lookout, or ain't -it? Who do you think lets me keep this business, anyway? It's the U. S. -Gover'ment, that's who it is. You better be careful what you sling at -this business."</p> - -<p>"Then it's the Gover'ment that's a big fool, instead of you and Keddie," -I says, and started for home. I remember Joe shouted out something; but -all I was thinking was that the day before I'd of thought it was wicked -to say what I'd just said, and now I didn't; and I wondered why.</p> - -<p>There wasn't a minute to lose now, because if Keddie was groaning he'd -be up and out again and looking for both of us. Mother and Mis' Bingy -and the baby was still out in the yard by the well-house, and Father was -just starting down the road after me.</p> - -<p>It's funny, but what, just the day before, would have been a thing so -big I wouldn't have thought of doing it, chiefly on account of the row -it'd make, was now just easy and natural. They must have said things, I -remember how loud their voices were and how I wished they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> wouldn't. And -I remember them saying over and over the same thing:</p> - -<p>"You don't need to go. You don't <i>need</i> to go. Ain't you always had a -roof over you and enough to eat? A girl had ought to be thankful for a -good home."</p> - -<p>But I went and got my things ready and got myself dressed. I wanted to -tell them about the feeling I had that I <i>had</i> to go, but I couldn't -tell about that, now that I was going, any more than I could tell when I -thought I mustn't go.</p> - -<p>I did say something to Mother when she come and stood in the bedroom -door and told me I was an ungrateful girl.</p> - -<p>"Ungrateful for what?" I says.</p> - -<p>"For me bringing you up and working my head off for you," she says, "and -your Pa the same."</p> - -<p>"But, Mother," I says, "that was your job to do. And me—I ain't found -my job—yet."</p> - -<p>"Your job is to do as we tell you to," says Mother. "The idea!"</p> - -<p>I tried, just that once, to make her see.</p> - -<p>"Mother," I says, "I'm separate. I'm <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>somebody else. I'm old enough to -get a-hold of some life like you've had, and some work I want to do. And -I can't do it if I stay here. I'm <i>separate</i>—don't you see that?"</p> - -<p>Then it come over me, dim, how surprised she must feel, after all, to -have to think that, that I was separate, instead of her and hers. I went -over toward her—I wanted to tell her so. But she says:</p> - -<p>"I don't know what you're coming to. And I'm glad I don't. When I'm dead -and gone, you'll think of this."</p> - -<p>And then I couldn't say what I'd tried to say. But I thought what she -said was true, that I would think about it some day, and be sorry. If it -hadn't been for Mis' Bingy, I s'pose I'd have given it up, even then. -It's hard to make a thing that's been so for a long time stop being so. -But Mis' Bingy needed me, and I was sorry for her; and I liked the -feeling.</p> - -<p>On the stairs Mother thought of something else.</p> - -<p>"What about Luke?" she says.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p><p>I hadn't thought of Luke.</p> - -<p>"He'd ought to be the one to set his foot down," says Mother, "seeing we -can't do anything with you."</p> - -<p>Set his foot down—Luke! Why? Because he'd tell me he loved me and I -said I'd marry him! I went to the pail for a drink of water, and I stood -there and laughed. Luke setting his foot down on me because I said he -might!</p> - -<p>"She'll come back when she's hungry," says Father. "Don't carry on so, -Mate."</p> - -<p>Mate was Mother's name. I hadn't heard Father call her that many times. -It come to me that my going away was something that brought them nearer -together for a minute. And <i>Mate</i>! It meant something, something that -she was. She <i>was</i> Father's mate. They'd met once for the first time. -They'd wanted their life to be nice. I ran up to them and kissed them -both. And then for the first time in my life I saw Mother's lip tremble.</p> - -<p>"I'll do up your clean underclothes," she says, "and send 'em after you. -You tell me where."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p><p>"Mother, Mother!" I says, and took hold of her. If it hadn't been for -Mis' Bingy I'd have given up going then and there, and married Luke -whenever he said so.</p> - -<p>It was Mis' Bingy's scared face that give me courage to go, and it was -her face that kept my mind off myself all the way to the depot. I -thought she was going to faint away when we went by the lane that led up -to their house. But we never heard anything or saw anybody. We were -going to the depot, and just set there until the first train come along -for the city. And all the while we did set there, Mis' Bingy got paler -and paler every time the door opened, or somebody shouted out on the -platform. She wanted to take the first train that come in and get away -anywheres, even if it took us out of our way. But I got her to wait the -half hour till the city train come along; and as the time went by she -begun to be less willing to go at all.</p> - -<p>"Cossy," she says, when we heard the engine whistle, "I've been wrong. -I'm being a bad wife. I'm going back."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p><p>"What kind of a wife you're being," I says, "that's got nothing to do -with it. It's <i>her</i>."</p> - -<p>She looked down at the baby. The baby had on her little best cloak, and -a bonnet that the ruffle come down over her eyes. She wasn't a pretty -baby, her face was spotted and she made a crooked mouth when she cried. -But she was soft and helpless, and I didn't mind her being homely.</p> - -<p>"I'm taking her away from a father's care," says Mis' Bingy, beginning -to cry.</p> - -<p>It seemed to me wicked the way she was stuffed full of words that didn't -mean anything, like "bad wife" and "father's care." I didn't say -anything, though. The baby's hand lay spread out on her cloak, with the -burned part done up in a rag and some soda, the way Mother'd fixed it. I -just picked up the little hand, and looked up at Mis' Bingy.</p> - -<p>When the train come in, she went out and got on to it, without another word.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> - -<p>It was past one o'clock when we got to the city, and we hadn't had -anything to eat. We found a lunch place near the depot, and then I spent -a penny for a paper, and we set there in the restaurant and tried to -find where to go. It wasn't much of any fun, getting to the city, not -the way you'd think it would be, because Mis' Bingy and I didn't know -where we were going.</p> - -<p>The Furnished Room page all sounded pleasant, but when we asked the -restaurant keeper where the cheap ones were, most of them was quite far -to walk. Finally we picked out some near each other and started out to -find them. I carried my valise and Mis' Bingy's, and she had the baby. -It was a hot day, with a feel of thunder in the air.</p> - -<p>We walked for two hours, because neither of us thought we'd ought to -begin by spending<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> car-fare. Mis' Bingy had sixteen dollars that she'd -saved, off and on, for two years. I had five dollars. So neither of us -was worried very much about money; but we wanted to save all we could. -We went to five or six places that were nice, but they cost too much; -and to two that we could have taken, only the lady said she didn't want -a baby in the house.</p> - -<p>"If they're born in your house, do you turn 'em out?" I says to one of -'em.</p> - -<p>Pretty soon we found a little grassy place with trees, and big buildings -around it, and we went in that and sat down on the grass.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says, "was you ever in the city before?"</p> - -<p>"Sure I was," she says, proud, "twelve years ago. We come to his uncle's -funeral. But he didn't leave him anything."</p> - -<p>"I was here once," I says, "when I was 'leven. To have my eyes done to. -And once when I was eighteen, when Mother got her teeth. Did you ever go -to the theater here?" I ask' her.</p> - -<p>"No," says she.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p><p>"Did you ever see in a jewelry store here?"</p> - -<p>"No," says she.</p> - -<p>"Or in stores with low-neck dresses and light colors?"</p> - -<p>"No," says she.</p> - -<p>"Nor the Zoo with the animals, nor a store where they sell just flowers, -nor the band?" I says.</p> - -<p>"No," says she. "But he used to tell me, when he come up sometimes," she -tacks on.</p> - -<p>The sun kept coming out and going under. The trees moved pleasant and -folks went hurrying by. It kind of come over me:</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says, "you ain't ever had anything in your whole life, -and neither have I. And now it's the city!"</p> - -<p>But she put her head down on the baby and begun to cry.</p> - -<p>"I don't know what's going to become of us," she says. "It's awful."</p> - -<p>I jumped up and stood on the grass and looked off down the street toward -the city.</p> - -<p>"And I don't know what's going to become of us!" I says. "Ain't it -grand?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p><p>I laughed, and whirled on my toe. A woman was going along the walk that -cut through the grassy place where we was. She looked nice, like -pictures of women.</p> - -<p>"Excuse me," I says to her, "can you tell us somebody that has a room to -rent, a cheap room?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry," she says, and bent her head and went on.</p> - -<p>It give me a little cold feeling. It come to me that maybe everything -wasn't the way it looked.</p> - -<p>"Come on, Mis' Bingy," I says, "it's getting late. We don't want to -sleep out here to-night."</p> - -<p>The room that we finally found was at the back and up two stairways, and -it cost fifty cents more than we thought we'd pay, but we took it.</p> - -<p>And now the singing in me that I'd been keeping down while there was -things to do, come up through, the little funny singing that was all -over me. I took out the two cards<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>—that I'd got only that morning, that -seemed, lifetimes back—and laid one of 'em on the bureau. It was Mr. -Ember's card. The other one I wouldn't look up till to-morrow when I -started out to find my work. But this one was his card, that he'd told -me would find him. He'd been on his way back to the city that morning. -By now he would be here. And I wasn't going to wait.</p> - -<p>I put on my other shoes and a clean waist, and I told Mis' Bingy that -I'd be back in a little while. She was going to try to go to sleep. I -heard her lock the door before I got to the stairs, and I knew that -she'd be afraid all the time that Keddie was going to find her.</p> - -<p>Out on the street I asked how to get to the address on the card. It was -on the far edge of the town: the policeman begun to tell me which car to -take.</p> - -<p>"I'll walk," I says.</p> - -<p>"It'll take you an hour," says he.</p> - -<p>"It's my hour," says I, and I started. But it come to me that that -wasn't the way Mr.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> Ember would have thought anybody ought to answer, -and I felt kind of sick. I thought, How was I going to remember to do -all the ways I knew he'd want?</p> - -<p>It took me more than an hour to walk it. It was 'most six o'clock when I -finally turned in the little street, just a block long, where he lived. -My heart begun to beat, while I walked along slow, looking at the -numbers. It come to me that maybe he wouldn't be glad to see me.</p> - -<p>Sixteen ... eighteen ... twenty-two ... twenty-four, and that was his. -It had a high brick fence—I could just see the roof over it—and a -little picket gate standing open. I went along a short walk with green -and yellow bushes on each side to a low porch with a door, that was -standing open, too. And on the door was two cards: "Mr. Arthur Gordon" -was on one. The other was his. Below them it said: "Visitors Enter."</p> - -<p>So I went in, the way it said, through a low, bare, dim hall, and -through a door on the right to a little room; and beyond was a big -room,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> with a queer, sloping window all over the ceiling. The room had -pictures on the walls. And it was full of folks.</p> - -<p>I stood by the door looking for him. It didn't seem possible that we -could meet here, now, when I'd left him such a little while ago, there -in Twiney's pasture. There was a good many different kinds of men, most -of them smiling. They were looking at the pictures, or drinking from -cups round a white table. I looked at them first, one after another; but -none of them was him.</p> - -<p>Then I begun noticing the women. They looked like the kind I'd seen in -the <i>Weekly</i>, Saturdays, when there was pictures. They were all -light-colored, with dresses that you couldn't tell how they were made, -and hair that you couldn't remember how it was done up, and soft voices -that went up and down, different from any I'd ever heard. I could hear -what some of them near me were saying, but there was none of it that I -could understand, nor what it was about, nor what the names meant. And -all of a sudden I see through it:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> These folks must all have done the -things he had done—Asia, Europe, volcanoes—and they could talk about -it his way. These were the kind of people he was used to.</p> - -<p>Right near me was a woman in a dress that looked like I've seen the -clouds look like, all showing through pink, with a hat like I'd never -seen except once in a window when I was waiting for Mother and her -teeth. I remember just what the woman said—I stood saying it over, like -when I was learning a piece for elocution class, home. She says:</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon? But I fancy Mr. Ember would call that effect far -from artificial...."</p> - -<p>They walked by me. I stood there, saying over and over what she had just -said about Mr. Ember. I didn't know what it meant, but it made me -remember something. It made me remember the way I'd talked to him that -morning, and the song I'd sung him, running backward on the road and -trying to flirt with him; and that about his not giving me his right -name.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p><p>"Pardon me," somebody near me said, "I wonder if I may serve you in any -way?"</p> - -<p>I didn't half see the man who spoke to me. I just shook my head, and -slipped out the door and out of the little yard.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> - -<p>It was that night that I begun this book. I'd brought in a loaf of bread -and a little warming pan and a can of baked beans. We het the beans over -the gas-jet and made a good supper—the water in the wash pitcher was -all right to drink. Then Mis' Bingy went to bed with the baby, and I got -out the paper I'd fixed, and I started. It seemed as though I must. I -had the feeling that I wanted to get out from the place I was in. Home, -when I felt like that, I used to sweep the parlor or shampoo my hair, or -try to get Father to leave me earn some money, helping him. Once I took -my egg money and started lessons on our organ. But such things don't get -you anywheres. And it seemed as though the book would help.</p> - -<p>I didn't know anything to write about, only just me. It come to me that -I ought to tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> about me. But nothing worth writing had ever happened -to me till just that morning. So I started in, and wrote near all -night—down to the part where we got to the city. The gas smelled bad. I -always remember that night. Before I knew it, it was getting light in -the window. Then I put up the paper and crawled over back of Mis' Bingy -and the baby, and went to sleep. And when I went to sleep, and when I -woke up in the morning, the same thing was in my head right along—that -mebbe I could get to be enough different so's I could see him again, -some day. Because I knew I wasn't never going to let him see me again -while I was the way I was now. But I wondered how to get different.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says next morning, "how do folks get different?"</p> - -<p>"Hard work and trouble, mostly," she says.</p> - -<p>"I don't mean backward," I says. "I mean frontward."</p> - -<p>She shook her head. "I donno," she says. "I used to think about that, -some."</p> - -<p>We had the rest of the beans and bread, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> then I started out. After -she got the baby dressed, Mis' Bingy was going out to set in the green -place where we'd been yesterday.</p> - -<p>"I could work," she says, "if it wasn't for the baby. She's lots of -work, too. But that don't earn us nothing."</p> - -<p>She was always making lace, and she'd brought along a lot she made—the -bottom drawer of the washstand was full of it. Making that, and tending -the baby, kep' her occupied; but, as she said, it didn't earn us -anything.</p> - -<p>I had the other card that Mr. Ember had given me, and that morning I -started out to find the man. John Carney, the name was, and it was a -long ways to walk. It was in a big office building. And when I got to -the right door, a smart young guy behind a fence says, What did I want -to see Mr. Carney about, and wouldn't one of the men in the office do? I -just give him Mr. Ember's card to take in, and when he'd gone I felt -glad; because if it had been the day before, when I hadn't seen that -room full of folks nor heard the woman<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> in the pinkish dress speak like -she done, I bet I'd of said to that young guy: "You go and chase -yourself to the pasture and quit your fresh lip." Just like Lena Curtsy -would have said.</p> - -<p>I had to wait quite a while till they sent for me. And when I went in -the office, long and like a parlor in a picture, I stood in front of a -big gray man whose shoulders were the principal part. And there was a -little young man there, sitting loose in a big easy chair, looking at a -newspaper. I noticed the little young man particular, because he didn't -look like anything, and he acted like so much. He didn't belong in the -office. He just happened.</p> - -<p>"What can I do for you, madam?" says the big gray man, with Mr. Ember's -card in his hand. "Mr. Carney is absent in Europe."</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "then I don't know. Mr. Ember thought Mr. Carney'd maybe -help me to get a job."</p> - -<p>The little young man spoke up.</p> - -<p>"I expect you'll meet up with a good deal of that kind of thing, Bliss," -he says, glancing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> up from his newspaper and glancing down again. -"Everybody sends 'em to my uncle. He—makes it a point to know of -things. He's a regular employment agency, d'y'see, for the jobless -friends of his friends. I—er—shouldn't let it bother me."</p> - -<p>The big gray man was real nice and regretful.</p> - -<p>"I'm genuinely sorry," he said. "I really am. I happen to know Ember a -little—I'd be glad to oblige him. But this—we don't need a thing here. -I'm sorry Mr. Carney is away. It's unfortunate, but he <i>is</i> away, for -some months."</p> - -<p>He said a few more things polite, and he took down my name and address -and said if anything <i>should</i> turn up.... And I happened to think of -something. If we had to wait very long, it might bother some about the -rent.</p> - -<p>"You don't think it would be very long, do you?" I says. "On account of -Mis' Bingy and my rent."</p> - -<p>"I wish I could promise something more,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> says the big gray man, looking -back on his desk papers. "I'm sorry. Good morning."</p> - -<p>I didn't think till afterward that he'd never even troubled to ask me -what I could do.</p> - -<p>Then the little young man that had been setting loose in his chair, sat -up loose, and spoke loose, too.</p> - -<p>"I say," he said, "if she's a friend of Ember's, I might give her a card -to the factory."</p> - -<p>"I shouldn't trouble if I were you, Arthur," says the big gray man, -sharp; which I didn't think was very nice of him.</p> - -<p>But the little young man, tipping his cigar so's the smoke would keep -out of his eyes, and squinting back from it, took out a card and -scrawled on it and tossed it across the table toward me.</p> - -<p>"You might try that," he says. And shook himself, loose again, and -strolled out the door. He walked loose, too.</p> - -<p>I thanked him and put the card away, and went down in the elevator. It -was the same elevator, it turned out, that the little young man had -taken, but of course he didn't notice me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> When I got down I asked the -man at the door how to get to the address of the factory that was -written on the card. He said it was about two miles, and told me with -his thumb which way. While I was trying to make out which way he meant, -I stood for a minute in the street doorway. And there was the little -young man again.</p> - -<p>"Do you know how to get to the factory?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes. On my two feet," I says back, and started.</p> - -<p>"You don't mean to say you're going to walk all that way?" he says, -following me a step or two.</p> - -<p>"No," I says, "I don't mean to say it, as I know of."</p> - -<p>"Look here," he says, "my car is here at the side door. I'm on my way -over to the factory now. Can't I give you a lift?"</p> - -<p>I thought for a minute. I was awful tired. If I walked all that way and -then home, I'd have to spend ten cents for lunch that would be enough -for Mis' Bingy and me both at night.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> The little young man was a friend -of Mr. Carney's, that was a friend of Mr. Ember's....</p> - -<p>"We'll be there in ten minutes," he says.</p> - -<p>"Much obliged," I says, and went with him.</p> - -<p>He had a nice little shiny two-seated car that he engineered himself. -When we was headed down the avenue he says:</p> - -<p>"My name is Arthur Carney. I'm Mr. Carney's nephew."</p> - -<p>I remembered about the awful things I'd said to Mr. Ember, so I answered -just as nice as I knew how: "I'm Cosma Wakely."</p> - -<p>"Do you live here in town?" he ask' me.</p> - -<p>"No," I says. "I just come from Katytown last night. Yes, I do live here -now—I forgot."</p> - -<p>"Really," he says.</p> - -<p>The car went so quick and smooth and even I could have sung because I -was in it. I'd never been in an automobile before.</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "ain't this just grand?"</p> - -<p>He looked over at me—he had a real white face and gold glasses and not -much of any hair showed. His clothes and his gloves was like new, and -some white cuffs peeked out.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p><p>"I think so," he says. "I'm glad you do."</p> - -<p>"I meant the car," I says; and then I was afraid I'd made another -mistake, like I had with Mr. Ember, and that the car was what the little -young man had meant, too.</p> - -<p>But he was looking at me and laughing.</p> - -<p>"You're awfully sure what you mean, aren't you?" he says. "Are you -always that sure?"</p> - -<p>I kept thinking that he was Mr. Carney's nephew, and that Mr. Carney was -Mr. Ember's friend. I wanted to answer him like I knew Mr. Ember would -like. I'd answered him saucy when he first spoke to me, but that was -part because I was embarrassed. So I didn't say anything at all. I -didn't care whether he thought I was a country girl and a stick or not. -I wanted to act nice.</p> - -<p>"What made you run away from me yesterday?" he says.</p> - -<p>"Yesterday?" I ask' him.</p> - -<p>"At Gordon's studio," he says. "You don't mean to say you've forgotten -that I spoke to you when you stood in the doorway? And you ran away."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p><p>I ask' him, before I meant to, "Was Mr. Ember there?"</p> - -<p>"Ember? No," he says; "he's never here. He works off in God-forsaken -spots. How are you going to like the city?"</p> - -<p>I looked down the shiny crowded street. All to once I saw it different. -Before that I'd been thinking he might be in every crowd.</p> - -<p>"It's awful lonesome here," I says.</p> - -<p>The policeman at the corner held up his hand, and we had to sit still -and wait. The little young man leaned on the wheel.</p> - -<p>"I hope you'll let me keep you from getting too lonesome," he says.</p> - -<p>I turned round on him. In another minute I'd have given him the thing I -always tried to say back, smart and quick. "When I'm that lonesome, I'll -go traveling back home again," was what come in my head. Instead of -that, all at once I wondered what the woman in the pinkish dress and hat -in the studio would have said. And I said what she did say:</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon?"</p> - -<p>He laughed. "All right," he said, and started<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> the car. "I do go pretty -fast. But, by jove, you know, you bowl a fellow over."</p> - -<p>I didn't say anything. I was thinking. Here was a man that had been with -all those people yesterday, the people that were the way I wanted to be. -He had always been with them. He had money, I thought—his clothes and -his cuffs, and then the car, looked as if he had. Probably he knew the -same things, almost, that Mr. Ember knew. He ought to be able to help -me.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Carney," I says, "have you been to see Europe, and Asia—and -volcanoes?"</p> - -<p>"Have I <i>what</i>?" says he.</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "traveled. Well, I guess you <i>have</i> seen all the things -and places there are to see, haven't you?"</p> - -<p>"I've done a turn or two," he says. "Why? Are you interested in travel?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes," I says; "but—of course—"</p> - -<p>"Do you want to travel?" he says, turning to look at me.</p> - -<p>"Why," I says; "but I mean—"</p> - -<p>He stopped the car for the policeman at the next corner.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p><p>"Because," he says, leaning on the wheel again, "if you want to travel, -you shall travel."</p> - -<p>It was almost what Mr. Ember had said. I was so thankful that now I knew -enough to answer nice, and not the awful way I had done to Mr. Ember.</p> - -<p>"I hope so," I says. "I do want to."</p> - -<p>I thought he was waiting for me to look round at him; but there was a -little dog in the automobile next to us, and I was watching that.</p> - -<p>"When?" he says. "When?"</p> - -<p>I says, "The gentleman blew his whistle."</p> - -<p>He laughed, and started the car, and I went on with what I'd been -wanting to say.</p> - -<p>"I was thinking," I says, "you've probably seen a whole lots of folks, -like I mean about. Well, I wanted to ask you: How do folks get -different? I mean, when they've started in being like me?"</p> - -<p>"What do you mean, child?" he says.</p> - -<p>"Get different," I says. "Get like those women there yesterday."</p> - -<p>"There wasn't a woman in the room yesterday who could hold a candle to -you, and you know it," he says. "Ever since yesterday I've<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> been cursing -myself that I didn't follow you. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw -you come into that office this morning. Why in the world would you want -to be different?"</p> - -<p>I wanted to say, "Because I want something more than that in mine!" But -I didn't. I spoke just regular.</p> - -<p>"No," I says, "I mean true. I mean, learn things. Not school things, but -how to do. How do you start out? I mean, if it's me?"</p> - -<p>He kept looking at me, in between guiding his car.</p> - -<p>"So that's it!" he says. "And you want me to tell you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes!" I says. "More than anything else." He turned his car into a side -street, and run it slow. We was almost to the factory, I judged. I could -see smoke and big walls.</p> - -<p>"You can have whatever schooling or training there is in this town that -you want—or anywhere else," he says to me, "if you just say the word."</p> - -<p>It was just the way Mr. Ember had spoken, and Mr. Ember had meant that I -mustn't think<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> there was nothing else for me only just what I'd got, if -I was willing to work for something more. So I see the little young man -must think as he did.</p> - -<p>"It's nice to think so," I says.</p> - -<p>"Do you mean it?" says he.</p> - -<p>"Why, of course," I says. "Is this the factory?"</p> - -<p>"You insist on trying for a job?" he says.</p> - -<p>"Why, yes," I says. "Don't you think I can get one?"</p> - -<p>"Sure you can get one," he says, "if I say the word."</p> - -<p>I wondered how he done what he done. It wasn't five minutes that I -waited in the stuffy dirty room by the gate into the factory yard, -before a man come and told me to go up to the next floor.</p> - -<p>When I crossed the yard the little young man come out of a door and he -says to me:</p> - -<p>"Good-by, and good luck to you." And he adds low, "I'll be waiting for -you at six o'clock at the door we came in."</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "don't you do that, Mr. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>Carney! Mr. Ember wouldn't want -me to trouble the other Mr. Carney or you either, not that much."</p> - -<p>He scowled. "This isn't exactly on his account, you know."</p> - -<p>And when he went off he didn't take off his hat to me, like Mr. Ember -had done, and like I thought city men always done.</p> - -<p>I kept thinking all that over while they started me in to work, punching -holes in a card. I thought about it so hard that when night came I asked -the forewoman if I could walk to the car with her. I thought I could -take the street-car, now I had a job. She was a big red woman. "That -don't work with me, you'll find," she says, and went past me. I guess -she didn't understand what I said. So I went out with some of the other -girls, and it just happened that I got out another door than the one I -went in, and on to the street-car.</p> - -<p>I bought a can of peas and four rolls and five cents butter, to -celebrate.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says, when I went in,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> "scratch a match, and start the -cook stove up there on the wall! I've got a job for three dollars a -week, from eight till six. Didn't I tell you everything'd be easy?"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> - -<p>I counted up, and found if we were to have enough for room rent and -food, I couldn't spend any sixty cents a week for car-fare. So I left -home at seven every morning and walked to work. At night I was so tired -I took the car. Then we'd have supper on the gas-jet, and I'd try to -write; but almost always I was so sleepy I went right to bed.</p> - -<p>Mis' Bingy had got so she didn't cry so much. She didn't take much -comfort going out to walk, she was so afraid of Keddie finding her.</p> - -<p>"It's comfort enough not to feel I'm goin' to be murdered every night," -she says. "I'd just as lieve set here."</p> - -<p>After we'd been there three days, I wrote to Mother and to Luke. To -Mother I said:</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mother</span>:</p> - -<p>"We are well, and hope this finds you the same. I have got a job. -We are all right,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> and hope you are. I hope the boys are all right, -and Father. Mis' Bingy says for you to be sure to tell her the news -when you write. Mis' Bingy and the baby are well, and I am the -same. So good-by now.</p> - -<p class="right">"<span class="smcap">Cosma.</span>"</p></blockquote> - -<p>I read it over, and wondered about it. I had never been away from home -before long enough to write a letter to them. And I couldn't think of -anything to say. It seemed to me I was a little girl in my letter. I -wondered if that was because they thought that was what I was.</p> - -<p>Then I wrote to Luke. You'd think that would have been harder, but it -was easier. I says:</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Luke</span>:</p> - -<p>"They told you, I guess, how I come off with Mis' Bingy. But, Luke, -I would of come anyway, if I could. I thought it was all right to -be your wife, but I want to see if there is anything else I would -rather do. So I'm not engaged to you any more. If I come back, and -if you are not married to somebody else, all right, if you still -want me by that time. But I don't think I'll come back for a long -time.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> I told you I didn't think I loved you, and you said I had to -marry somebody. But now I don't, Luke, because I got a job. Please -don't think hard of me. This was meant right, Luke.</p> - -<p class="right">"<span class="smcap">Cosma.</span>"</p></blockquote> - -<p>I wrote another letter, too—just because it felt good to be writing it. -It said:</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Ember</span>:</p> - -<p>"I want you to know I done as you said. I left home, and I left -Luke, and I'm going to see if there is anything in the world for me -to be that I can get to be. I've got a job, and I've got you to -thank for that. Mr. Carney's nephew got it for me.</p> - -<p>"There's something I want to say to you that's hard to say. I want -you to know that the walk that morning was the nicest thing that -ever happened to me. It made me see that the cheap me—the vulgar -me, like you said—wasn't the only me there is to me. Clear inside -is something that can be another me. I knew that before, in the -grove, and early in the morning, like I said. But I didn't think I -could ever let it out enough to be me. I didn't trust it, not till -you came.</p> - -<p>"And that's what makes me think I can be different, the way you -said to. I'd hate for you to think I was just the sassy girl I -acted that morning. There's something else I can't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> bear to have -you think—that's that I didn't know how different I acted at the -table from what you did. I did know.</p> - -<p>"I've got a job, and Mis' Bingy and the baby are here—I knocked -her husband down before I come because he was drunk and was going -to kill her, so we thought we better leave there. That was how we -come. But I guess I would have come anyway after I talked with you.</p> - -<p class="right">"Your friend,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> -"<span class="smcap">Cosma Wakely</span>."</p> - -<p>"P. S.—I say <i>Cosma</i> all the time now."</p></blockquote> - -<p>I sealed it up and directed it, and slipped it in my book. I wouldn't -send it; but it was nice to write it.</p> - -<p>The second day I was in the factory, a girl come to me in the hall and -asked me if I'd go out with her to lunch. I said I had my roll and a -banana; but I'd walk along with her and eat 'em. She said that was what -she meant—she had some crackers and an apple. So we walked down the -block. Her name was Rose Everly.</p> - -<p>There was a place half-way along there where some policemen were always -sitting out, and when we went past there one of them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> spoke to her. She -stopped, and she gave me an introduction.</p> - -<p>"Miss Wakely," she says, "you meet Sergeant Ebbit."</p> - -<p>"Pleased to make your acquaintance," says he. "How's the strike coming -on?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know as I know anything about any strike," she says, throwing -up her head.</p> - -<p>"How about you?" he says to me. "You whinin' too?"</p> - -<p>I didn't know what he meant, and I guess he see I didn't. He laughed, -and brought us out a couple of oranges.</p> - -<p>"I'll be the first to run in the both of you, though," he says, "if you -start any nonsense."</p> - -<p>"What's he mean?" I says, when we went on.</p> - -<p>"He's new over here, or he wouldn't be so sassy, not to me," says Rose. -"Well, I brought you out here to put you wise."</p> - -<p>Then she told me, while we walked up and down and et our oranges.</p> - -<p>It seems there was things in the factory that I didn't have any notion -about. My own job was in the printing office, connected with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> the -factory. I was running a Gordon press, at slow speed, learning to feed -it right. At the first of the next week, I was going to be put on full -speed. We was to print from twelve thousand to fifteen thousand -envelopes a day, then; and I knew what that meant, from watching the -other machines. There was a time keeper over the full-speed machines, -and it was hurry, hurry, hurry, all day long. It was all right while I -was learning it, but I hated to think about making the same motion -twelve or fifteen thousand times every day. In our room there was sixty -or so. I used to notice the air, it smelled of some kind of gas and it -was full of paper dust. When they swept up they never wet the broom; and -when I asked the man if he didn't know enough to do that he swore at me. -It wasn't a nice place to work.</p> - -<p>But it seems there was other things that I didn't know about yet. There -was fines for everything, and dockings for most that many. We had to go -through the other factory to get out, and it seems they locked the doors -on us as soon as we got in, and of course that was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> bad if there'd be a -fire. Then there was things about the foreman; and there wasn't any -Saturday half-holiday. And it seems the girls had joined together and -asked for better things. And Rose wanted to know if I'd be one of them.</p> - -<p>"Sure," I says, "is there anybody that won't?"</p> - -<p>"Them that's afraid of their jobs," she says. "If we don't get what we -think we ought to have, we'll—quit. We're going to have a meeting -to-morrow night. Can you come, and will you talk?"</p> - -<p>"Sure I'll come," I says. "But I can't talk. I don't know enough."</p> - -<p>The sergeant says something else to us when we come back.</p> - -<p>"He'll likely be running us both in for getting a row made at us, -picketing, next week at this time," Rose said. At the door she took hold -of my arm. "Good for you!" she says. "We was all afraid of you when we -heard about Carney."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" I asked her.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p><p>"'Bout Arthur Carney gettin' you your job," she says.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I says. "What's that got to do with it?"</p> - -<p>She laughed. "You baby!" she says. "Don't you know he owns the whole -outfit?"</p> - -<p>"The <i>factory</i>?" I says.</p> - -<p>He owned most of it, she told me. I kept going over that all the while I -fed my machine. And I kept going over what he'd said to me in his car. I -felt as if I didn't want to see him again, no matter how much he talked -about school; but I tried not to think that, because he was Mr. Carney's -nephew, and Mr. Carney was Mr. Ember's friend.</p> - -<p>I went to the meeting, as I said I would; but it was hard for me to make -much out of it. There was all these things ought to be changed in the -factory, and we knew it, and we thought we'd ought to have a little more -wages; I wanted more when I began on full speed, but I didn't think I -was going to get it. It seemed to me the thing to do was to ask to have -things changed, and, if they didn't do it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> quit till they did change -them. But at the meeting I found that there was those that was afraid to -ask—just for fire-escapes and decent cleanliness and a few cents more a -week and extra pay for overtime. And then I found out something else, -that if they wouldn't give us these things and we did quit, there was -some of us that wouldn't agree to quit, and maybe others that would come -in and take our jobs, and put up with what we had been trying to make -better. When I got that through my head, I stood right up at the meeting -to ask a question.</p> - -<p>"They couldn't take our jobs if we stood out in front and tried to get -it into their heads what we was trying to do, could they?" I says. -"Ain't it just because they don't see what we're trying to do?"</p> - -<p>They all laughed, and the woman that was speaking—somebody from outside -the factory—says yes, she thought that was it, they didn't see what we -were trying to do.</p> - -<p>The next day was Sunday, and I could hardly wait. I was up early and out -while<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> Mis' Bingy was still asleep. I hated to leave her all day, but it -seemed as if ever since I come to the city something out there was -calling me. I dunno where I went. I tramped for miles, and I spent -fifteen cents car-fare, besides transfers, but I didn't care. I had some -rolls in a bag, and I et them when I didn't show. And I looked and -looked.</p> - -<p>I found hundreds of folks, going off for all day, washed and dressed up -and with lunches and children, headed out in the country, I judged. Some -of them looked like Father and Mother and Mis' Bingy, and as if they -couldn't be any other way. I set on the car with them, and kind of see -<i>through</i> them, and knew how they must snap each other up, home, when -they wasn't dressed up. I wondered what God wanted so many for, that -couldn't be different because it was too late. But some, and most of all -the children, looked as if they might have been most anybody, if they -were given a chance. I wondered how they could get the chance, and if -none of them tried. I wondered how I could try. I knew I'd never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> get it -in the factory. No matter if we got all the things we were asking for, -it was a dog's life—I knew that already. It wasn't much better than -Bert and Henny had, to the blast furnace. They got dirty, and had to -work straight twenty-four hours once every two weeks; but they made -their dollar-twenty a day, and not any of us done that. I kept trying to -think how to get started.</p> - -<p>At the end of one car line I got off and walked over to the river. There -was beautiful houses there—more beautiful than I had ever seen, even in -the pictures. I thought they must have awful big families, they had so -many up-stairs rooms. The grass looked combed and fluffed, much better -than the babies' hair around the factory. Somebody give an awful lot of -time to the flowers, and the river showed through the bushes. I liked -the nice curtains, and when automobiles went by I liked to look at the -ladies, they seemed so clean and tended. But I wondered why.</p> - -<p>I stood looking through the iron fence of a great big house when a -policeman come along.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p><p>I says to him, before he could get passed, "I was wishing I knew the -names of the folks that live in there."</p> - -<p>He stopped like a wall that knew how to walk. "Well, missy," says he, -"and was ye thinkin' of buyin' it in?"</p> - -<p>"No," I says, "not with nothin' but you to watch it." And then I walked -on fast, and felt sick, sick at myself. Not one of them tended ladies in -the automobiles would have spoke like that. And Mr. Ember would have -hated me if he'd heard me say it. How did folks ever get over being -smart and quick, and be just regular?</p> - -<p>After a while, I come past a big church, and I went in. I never liked -church, because the minister had always kept at me to join and I didn't -think I was good enough. But I knew nobody would ever ask me to join -here. There was one reason, though, why I liked it, even home—everybody -acted nice, and like there was company. Once I said that, home, to the -table, when everybody was jawing, "Let's act like we was in church," I -said. But it made<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> Father mad, and he couldn't understand that I hadn't -meant the being good part at all. I only meant the acting nice part.</p> - -<p>In the church it was like that, just as if everybody had company and was -on their good behavior. They set me in the gallery, and I could see the -whole crowd. The hats was grand. But the nicest was the colors in the -dresses and the windows and the flowers. It was funny, but something in -them made me hurt. And when the music burst out sudden, it hurt me so -that I dropped my bag of rolls so's to get down and pick them up, and -get my mind off my throat. I was thinking about it afterward, and it was -the first music I'd ever heard except our reed organ in church, and Lena -Curtsy's piano, and the movies, and the circus band. And even the circus -band had hurt my throat, too.</p> - -<p>I never knew a word the man said, I mean the minister. He didn't talk -anyhow—he just kept on about something, as if he was trying to make -somebody mean something they didn't mean. But I liked being there. -Everybody<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> seemed like they ought to seem. I wondered if they was. I -couldn't seem to see <i>through</i>, like I could with the folks in the -street-car. It didn't seem possible that those folks down there ever -yipped out about anything to each other, and, anyway, what could they -have to yip out about? They were all clean and tended, too. Afterward I -stood in the door and watched them pour out, talking fast, and drive -off. I liked to see them close to, and hear the way they said their -words. It made a real nice morning, but I never heard a word about God.</p> - -<p>I et my rolls in the park, and I stayed there a good while. The sun or -the green or something made me feel good. I tried to look at the -animals, but I hated it in the smelly places, with the poor live things -in cages. When they tore around and couldn't sit still in any one place, -I thought it was just like Mother and Father and the boys and Mis' -Bingy, they all had to stay in a little place they didn't like, doing -what they didn't want to do. I didn't blame any of them for being ugly. -The more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> I looked at the animals, the better I understood. Then I -thought about Keddie Bingy—and he didn't have only that little place to -stay, with the bed in the kitchen, and he hated being a stone mason, I'd -heard him tell Father that. I didn't know but I could understand why he -got drunk. Then there was Joe, that had the Dew Drop Inn, and he had to -stay there in that place, and he couldn't get out; and, anyway, the -United States let him; and I begun to see how it was that Joe got Keddie -drunk all the time. So I was glad I went to see the animals, even if I -couldn't stay on account of it making me sick.</p> - -<p>Outside the park was the big hotels. I wondered if I could walk inside -and look at them, but when I got to the steps, I was afraid. Then I see -a big red house behind more iron fence, with an American flag overhead, -and I asked a little boy with some papers if that was where the mayor -lived.</p> - -<p>"Naw," says he. "Private party. I t'ought youse was their chum, the way -youse was rubberin'."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p><p>I give him a penny for a paper and didn't say anything. And then I felt -better about the way I'd answered the policeman. It ain't so hard to act -nice if you can only think in time.</p> - -<p>I walked all the way home. I went in every church I come to, because it -was some place to go in. If I'd been shot out of a gun I couldn't have -told 'em apart, and I wondered how they could tell themselves. And -everywhere I went, there wasn't a soul to speak to. I tried to imagine -what if Mis' Bingy and the baby wasn't back there in the room, and there -was nobody to speak to when I got back. It felt funny, like once when I -got too far from shore in the pond, home. I couldn't help thinking about -Mr. Carney saying: "You must let me help you to keep from being too -lonesome." And if he'd come along just then with his shiny car, I don't -know but I'd have got in.</p> - -<p>It was the day after that that he come to the factory and asked for me. -I didn't think he'd do that, but I guess he didn't care what he done. -The foreman called me out, and when I got<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> into his office there was Mr. -Arthur, and he left me there with him. Mr. Arthur's hat was on the back -of his head, and his light hair was flat down on his forehead, and his -light-colored eyes and eyebrows made me want to get away from him, even -if he was Mr. Ember's friend.</p> - -<p>"Child," he says to me, "why are you trying to avoid me? I've found a -place for you where you can go and learn as much as you want. I've been -waiting to tell you about it. Don't you trust me?" he says.</p> - -<p>I says, "I'd trust any friend of Mr. Ember's."</p> - -<p>"Well," he says, "anyhow, trust me. I'll call here for you to-night, and -you let me tell you what I've got planned for you."</p> - -<p>"I'm going to meet with some of the girls to-night, Mr. Carney," I says.</p> - -<p>"Cut that out," he says. "Come with me."</p> - -<p>I laughed at that. "You act like your way was the way things are," I -says.</p> - -<p>"I wish it were," he says, "I wish it were."</p> - -<p>"Listen, Mr. Carney," I says. "I've got a good job, and I like the -girls. It's a dirty, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>disagreeable place to work, and we'd ought to have -a good many things we haven't got," I says to him, "but I guess I'll -stick it out for a while. I couldn't come to-night, anyway."</p> - -<p>"I'll wait for you to-morrow night, then," he says. "We'll have a little -dinner somewhere, and a run in the car—"</p> - -<p>It was getting awful hard to remember to act nice, and I spilled over.</p> - -<p>"You got the ways of a hitching-post," I says; "but you ain't got the -tie-strap." And I walked out and left him there.</p> - -<p>Two nights he run his car down to the door where he'd found I come out. -Once I pretended not to see him, and run and caught a street-car. Once -he jumped out and walked along beside me, and the girls fell back. I -told him Mis' Bingy and I were going to have a banquet of wieners, fried -on the gas-jet, and I couldn't come. He put a note in my hand, he never -seemed to care what anybody thought, I noticed that about him.</p> - -<p>Mis' Bingy and I read the note, while the wieners were frying.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> - -<blockquote><p>"Don't keep me waiting," it said. "I want to see you the glorious -creature you could be if you had the training you say you want. -Music, riding, whatever you ask for, you shall have it all, on my -honor. Don't I deserve a little more confidence from you?</p> - -<p class="right">A. C."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Mis' Bingy rocked back and forth on the bed.</p> - -<p>"Cossy Wakely," she said, "it's my fault, it's my fault. I brung you. -Let's us go back, Cossy, right off. Let's us go back."</p> - -<p>"Oh, pshaw, Mis' Bingy!" I says, "I guess he means it right. We're -just—vulgar."</p> - -<p>"Oh, what a world," says Mis' Bingy. "Ain't there no place women can get -shed of men, with their drunkenness and their devilment?"</p> - -<p>I couldn't feel that way a bit. "I don't want to," I says. "I want to -find the other kind of men. There is them!"</p> - -<p>We had a nice supper, and then I wrote in this book. It was beginning to -be so I could hardly wait to get at it. I wondered if that was the way -Mr. Ember felt about his work. Then I thought about the factory, and -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>remembered that that was work, too. It didn't seem as if they ought to -have the same name.</p> - -<p>Next morning Rose went up the stairs with me.</p> - -<p>"You know you'll either have to quit your job or else give in, don't -you?" she says.</p> - -<p>I looked at her.</p> - -<p>"Are you sure?" I says, "I thought maybe my being afraid of him was just -being—vulgar."</p> - -<p>"You baby," she says. "It ain't your fault. Everybody understands. We -always tell the new pretty ones. But he brought you here—"</p> - -<p>I tried to think what to do, all that day, while I fed the press. I -could think well enough—the work was just one motion, one motion, one -motion, and I didn't have to think about that. But I knew in a little -while the rest of my head wouldn't think while I worked, and that I -should just stand there with the smell of the oil and the ink and the -gas and the paper dust, and the noise. I wondered what we was all doing -it for, just to earn money to keep breathing, and to supply Mr. Arthur -Carney with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> money for "little dinners somewhere," and the shiny car. It -didn't seem worth while, not for any of us.</p> - -<p>At noon Rose and I walked again, she wanted to tell me about a meeting -for that night. They'd heard that morning from Mr. Carney. He wouldn't -give in on one of the things, except to promise to unlock the doors -while we worked. "But he's promised that before," Rose says. "It don't -last. We're going to take the vote to-night on walking out."</p> - -<p>"What!" says Sergeant Ebbit, when we come by. "Ain't you two struck -yet?"</p> - -<p>"Don't you want to be?" says Rose, pretending to hit at him. I don't -know how any of us can act nice, with everybody joshing us so free.</p> - -<p>I promised to go to the meeting, and that meant that I couldn't go home -to supper, because it was so far to walk back. And when I come out the -door, there was Mr. Carney's car, and him walking toward me. I never -stopped a minute. I walked straight through the girls and got into his -car. He jumped in after me and banged the door. I heard the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> girls -titter. "You glorious thing," I heard him say; and I says, low:</p> - -<p>"I've got one errand, though. Will you take me there?"</p> - -<p>"Anywhere under heaven," he says.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> - -<p>I showed Mr. Carney which way. We went past the girls, and round the -corner, and straight down the narrow street where we always walked -eating our lunch. I motioned where to stop. I jumped out. Sergeant Ebbit -was alone just inside the door of the police station.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Beauty," he says; "what can I do for you?"</p> - -<p>I says, "I want you to come out here and arrest a fresh young guy with a -car, that's been bothering me."</p> - -<p>He jumped up and followed. He was new there, as Rose had said, and then -he kind of liked me, too. I'd known that several days, and I was -depending on it now. He come hurrying, like I thought he would, and he -says, "I know them fool kids, and I'll learn 'em, if<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> you say so." And -before he see Mr. Carney he blew his whistle.</p> - -<p>"That's him," I says, pointing to the little shiny car.</p> - -<p>It makes me laugh now to remember the sergeant's face. But another -policeman was coming, running. And folks stopped and stared. And I -slipped out the station door quick, and turned the corner and dodged -straight across the factory yard and took to my heels.</p> - -<p>It was after six o'clock, so the streets were alive. I walked along, -never noticing where I was going. I looked down the street. As far as I -could see there went the heads, men and women, bobbing along home. Half -of them, I thought, had just the same kind of box to live in that Mis' -Bingy and I had. Yet there they was, going to work every day by -clockwork, always thinking something good was going to come of it. I -tramped along with them. There was something good in the way our feet -all come down on the walk together. In spite of everything, I felt fine. -But I guess<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> that was because I was young and well. Some of them that -passed me, their heads didn't stay up and their feet dragged. And they -didn't seem to know each other was there. If only they could have felt -the good feeling of marching together, it seemed to me they'd be less -tired.</p> - -<p>"They've got to find out different," I thought. "How can they?"</p> - -<p>The most of them crossed east on Broadway and under a covered place with -bells clanging. I saw the sign "Brooklyn Bridge," so I went up the steps -and out on the bridge, and I walked clear across it and back again. I'll -never forget that walk. I was looking at the others and looking at -them—the folks that was workers, like me. I seemed to know something -about them they didn't know. It seemed as if I had to do something.</p> - -<p>A bunch of little young girls passed me, all laughing. They seemed years -younger than I was. I thought of them—of the day they'd had in the -factory—bad air, noise, work that was dead before it was born, and -maybe a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> home where there was rows, or maybe just nobody at all; and -somebody like Arthur Carney coming to help them be a little less -lonesome. And then I faced it honest: Suppose he hadn't had flat hair -and light eyes. Suppose he had looked different, so that I would have -<i>wanted</i> to go to dinner with him?</p> - -<p>I begun to walk fast, back to town. Across the bridge I went in a little -down-stairs place to get something to eat. I was thinking so hard I -never knew I'd ordered a quarter's worth till I got the bill. But I -didn't care much. Everything else seemed all of a sudden to matter so -much more.</p> - -<p>That night, when I walked into the meeting, they all stared. I s'pose -the word had got round that I'd gone with him. I whispered to Rose that -I wanted to say something, and she give me a chance right away. When I -got up on the platform and faced 'em, I wasn't afraid. I was glad.</p> - -<p>I told them that just because I had got to leave, I didn't want them to -think I was going to forget. And that they mustn't forget,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> either. "It -ain't caught me yet," I told 'em. "I'm new and from the country, and I -can see what it is that you're getting, like you can't see. And what I -say is this: Quit your hoping. Just know that until we get together -ourselves, nothing will come out of the factory except what we're -getting now. Quit your hoping, and help. That's my last word."</p> - -<p>And yet I guess you can't blame anybody for being afraid of being -hungry. I'd never been hungry yet, so I was brave.</p> - -<p>I didn't tell Mis' Bingy that night that I'd lost my job. I didn't tell -her till next morning when she woke up, scared that I was late. We went -out in the park with the baby.</p> - -<p>"We'll be all right, Mis' Bingy," I says, "don't you worry."</p> - -<p>I was sitting on the grass. And when I spoke so, I happened to see my -foot sticking from under my skirt. The whole half of my shoe sole had -come off, and was gone, and the nails was all showing. Ten days' rent it -would take to buy me another pair.</p> - -<p>Just now I tore out thirty pages of this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> book. And just now I read them -over. They made me sick to read them, not because of what was there, but -because of what wasn't there. It was the same thing over and over again -all that time. Hat factory, ribbon factory, braid factory, silk factory, -and ten weeks rolling stogies. Some places the girls cared, and was -trying to make others care to get things better. In others it was get -what you could, look your best, and marry the first man that asked you.</p> - -<p>Every place I went, I begun asking about the things that Rose had taught -me about—fines, and dockings, and fire safety, and the rest. Then I -talked to the girls. That was why I didn't "last."</p> - -<p>"You'll get used to things one of these days," says a forelady to me.</p> - -<p>"That's what I'm afraid of," I told her.</p> - -<p>But the worst was, there wasn't any fun. There wasn't anything to go to, -and, anyhow, I couldn't afford the car-fare back in the evening.</p> - -<p>Mis' Bingy had found a place where she could leave the baby a little -while every day,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> and she done some cleaning. We moved out of our first -room to one farther up that didn't cost so high. I got so I begun to -think ahead, nights.</p> - -<p>Then one night when I come in, the lady we rented of says a lady had -been there to see me; "A lady," she says, "that come in a automobile and -says her words as careful as if she was a-singin' in the church. She's -a-comin' back again."</p> - -<p>And when she come, she stood by the table and says:</p> - -<p>"Miss Wakely, I am Mis' Arthur Carney."</p> - -<p>"My land!" I says. It had never entered my head that he might have a -wife on top of everything else.</p> - -<p>"I have been hearing," she says, "of what you did some time ago. I mean -about—Mr. Carney. I have come to find you, because it seemed to me that -you must be a remarkable girl."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mis' Carney," I says, "nobody needs to be remarkable to think of -getting <i>him</i> arrested."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p><p>And then I remembered something: "Yes, sir!" I says, "it was you! It -was you that was in the pinkish dress in Mr. Ember's house that day!"</p> - -<p>And I told her what she had been saying when she passed the door. But -all I was thinking was—she knew; him. She knew Mr. Ember, too!</p> - -<p>She talked to me a long time. She didn't ask me many questions—and I -didn't tell her much about me, but still in a little while we felt real -acquainted. And pretty soon she says:</p> - -<p>"I came really, you know, to see whether you had found another -position—after you left that one. I've had a good deal of a time -finding you out. What have you done since? What are you doing now?"</p> - -<p>I told her some of it.</p> - -<p>"And what do you want to do?" she says then.</p> - -<p>I don't know what give me the courage. It was just like something in me -said: "Tell her. Tell her. Tell her." And I said it.</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "I'd work my head off if I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> could go somewheres to school. -But I don't want to know just school things. I want to know more than -them...."</p> - -<p>"What do you want to know?" she says.</p> - -<p>It was funny how easy it was to talk to her. Father or Mother or Luke or -Mis' Bingy, that I'd known all my life, I couldn't have explained things -to like I could to her. But I think that was part because she didn't -need everything all said out in sentences, and then it was part because -I knew she wouldn't make a fuss at me when I got through.</p> - -<p>When she went away: "I'm going to look around a little," she says, "I'll -come back in a few days."</p> - -<p>"But, oh," I says, "you know, there's Mis' Bingy and the baby. I -couldn't do anything that'd take me away from her. I don't know why you -bother with me anyway," I says.</p> - -<p>She had the loveliest dignified way. "We owe you something, my husband -and I," she says.</p> - -<p>But of course I knew that that was just her manner of speaking, and that -her husband<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> didn't know a thing about what she was doing, and that -probably it was one of those speeches that everybody keeps making, like -when Mis' Bingy talked, in the depot, of taking her baby away from "a -father's care."</p> - -<p>She went off in her automobile, and I stood on the step looking after -her. The very thought that there could be anybody in the world like her, -that would do what she'd done, made me feel like I understood the earth. -I told Mis' Bingy, and she sat a long time looking out the window with -her mouth open.</p> - -<p>"If Keddie had done that," she says, "I bet a quarter of a pound of tea, -I'd blame the girl."</p> - -<p>I'd have thought everybody would. We talked it over.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says, "maybe they's ways to be decent we don't even -<i>know</i> about."</p> - -<p>She kep' her mouth open. "Then who's to blame if we don't act up to 'em, -I donno," she says, after a while.</p> - -<p>"I donno, too," I says. "It must be somebody, though."</p> - -<p>And we both thought it must be.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p><p>The next day was Sunday, and Mis' Bingy and I done what we'd been going -to do for a long time. We walked up to the park, and inside the big -building where the pictures are. Mis' Bingy set on a bench and fed the -baby, while I wandered round.</p> - -<p>I guess you're supposed to feel nice and real awed when you first go to -that big place. I guess you're supposed to be glad you live in a city -where they're free to you. I thought I was going to have a good time. -But instead of that I kept getting madder and madder. Once I begun to -talk out loud, and I was afraid they'd put me out. It was when I come to -a big room full of statues, with one big white one that said under it -"Apollo." I'd never heard the name. I says to the man in the hall:</p> - -<p>"Can you tell me who that Apollo was—and why he's stuck up here?"</p> - -<p>"Catalogues twenty-five cents each, at the door," says the man.</p> - -<p>"Well," I says, "I ain't got the quarter to spare. But I thought mebbe -you knew."</p> - -<p>"He was the Greek god of beauty and song,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> he says, stiff. And the next -thing I knew I was standing there in front of the Greek god talking out -loud. And I says:</p> - -<p>"I'd like to twist the nose off your face, just because I've never heard -of you before—nor you—nor you—nor you—nor you. <i>Why</i> ain't I never -heard of you?"</p> - -<p>I run for Mis' Bingy.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Bingy," I says, "are you ready to go?"</p> - -<p>She followed me without a word. Out on the steps she says, shaking:</p> - -<p>"Which was it—Keddie or Carney?"</p> - -<p>"It was neither," I says, "it was that smart white god in there, and all -the rest of 'em. Mis' Bingy! Folks <i>know</i> about 'em. They know when they -go there, and they know about pictures. I heard 'em talking. What's the -reason we don't know?"</p> - -<p>"Go on!" says Mis' Bingy. "We ain't the kind of folks them things are -calculated for."</p> - -<p>"It's a lie!" I says. "It's a lie! I could almost like 'em now—only I -got so mad."</p> - -<p>I set down on a bench in the park, and cried. And I didn't care who -heard me.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p><p>Mis' Bingy stood up, waiting for me, hushing the baby back and forth on -her hip.</p> - -<p>"I use' to feel like that when I was a girl," she says. "You'll get over -it." She kept saying that, several times. "You'll get over it, Cossy," -as if she thought it was some comfort.</p> - -<p>"That's what I'm afraid of," I says, after a while.</p> - -<p>We transferred at Eighth Street on the way down, because there was -something else I'd heard about and I hadn't ever seen yet. We walked -east through the square, under the arch, and I asked a policeman for -what I was looking for, and he showed me: The top story where the fire -had been in a factory. The girls had told me about it, and I told Mis' -Bingy, and we stood and looked. That was where they had jumped from. -That was where they had hit the sidewalk, a hundred and eighteen of -them, smashed or burned to death.</p> - -<p>"It might have been you, Cossy," Mis' Bingy says, staring up and -swinging the baby.</p> - -<p>"It <i>was</i> me," I says. "I felt like it was me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> when I heard it—and I -feel like it was me now."</p> - -<p>But I didn't want to cry for that. While I looked I got still inside, -still and sick, and sure. I guess I felt like I was every factory girl -in in New York. The hundred and eighteen wasn't the worst off—I knew -that now. I wondered how many of them some Carney had chased, to "help -them be a little less lonesome." I wondered how many of them could talk -English. I wondered how many of them ever had it in their heads for a -minute that there was anything else for them only just what they had. -Then I thought about that Greek god of beauty and song. And them hundred -and eighteen and most of the other girls and Mis' Bingy and me never -even knew there was such a guy.</p> - -<p>Two days later Mis' Carney come back. The landlady had a book agent, -entertaining him in the parlor, so I had to take her right up to our -room. It was nice and clean, and Mis' Bingy always combed her hair and -changed her dress after dinner, just like she had at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> home afternoons, -when she'd got the dishes washed up. She was making lace by the window, -and the baby was on the floor. It was late, and we'd got a whole pie tin -of wieners sizzling over the gas-jet.</p> - -<p>"Mis' Carney, you meet Mis' Bingy," I says. But Mis' Carney hardly -looked at her. She bent right over the pillow that Mis' Bingy's work was -on.</p> - -<p>"Do you mean," Mis' Carney said, "that you are actually making the lace? -Here in New York?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, ma'am," Mis' Bingy says. "Ma taught me—in the old country."</p> - -<p>"Have you any of it made?" Mis' Carney says.</p> - -<p>Mis' Bingy opened the washstand drawer and took out what she had, tied -up in a pillow case. Mis' Carney set on the bed and took it in her -hands. After a long time she looked up at me, and her face was lovely.</p> - -<p>"Miss Wakely," she says, "I came to tell you what I have for you to -do—and I was a good deal bothered—about your friend, Mis' Bingy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> But -it seems to me that she can earn considerably more than you can—with -her lace. I paid six dollars a yard for lace like this not a fortnight -ago."</p> - -<p>Then she turned to me. "You're going to a school right here in town," -she said; "I have arranged everything. And now Mis' Bingy is going to -find a larger room and make her lace."</p> - -<p>The wieners had burned black before any of us noticed. If ever you seen -the sky open back, I guess you know.</p> - -<p>Mis' Carney asked me to spend Friday to Monday with her, and then she -would take me over to the school.</p> - -<p>"Have I got to see your husband?" I says to her, direct.</p> - -<p>Her husband was in Europe, so that was how she could ask me. And Friday -afternoon she come for me.</p> - -<p>"We can take your trunk in the car, if it's a small one," she says.</p> - -<p>"I ain't even got a satchel," I told her. "My other dress and things are -in this here."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p><p>Mis' Bingy was hanging over the bannister post, and the landlady with -her.</p> - -<p>"Don't you go and forget me, Cossy," says Mis' Bingy, crying.</p> - -<p>The landlady used her face all the time like a strong light was in her -eyes.</p> - -<p>"She'll forget you, all right," she says. "I got two daughters -somewheres that I never hear a word out of. Best say good-by and leave -it go at that."</p> - -<p>I always wanted everybody to tell the truth, but that woman sort of -undressed it, and then told it. And it made a little hush, there in the -hall.</p> - -<p>Mis' Carney's house was big and still. She took me to a bedroom at the -back, looking out on a square garden. The furniture was white, with -rose-buds on, and there were gray and pink rugs on the floor. The light -colored rugs seemed so wonderful—just as if it didn't matter if they -did get soiled, no more than towels. Nor not so much so. On the wall was -a little picture of a boat with a bright-colored sail, on a real blue -sky. The minute I see it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> the whole thing kind of come over me. And I -begun to cry.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mis' Carney," I says, "we got a picture in the parlor, home. But it -don't look like that."</p> - -<p>"Is that what you are crying for?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"No," I says, "I don't think so. I was thinking about the bed. Mother -and I looked at one in a show-window, once."</p> - -<p>I remembered how Mother had stood and looked at it, all made up clean -and pretty, even after I was tired and wanted to go on.</p> - -<p>Saturday morning we went shopping. I'd never been down-town before when -I wasn't walking fast to get somewheres. This was the first time I had -ever <i>looked</i>. Everywhere there were people, hurrying and thinking.</p> - -<p>"Look in this window, Cosma," Mis' Carney said as we went in a store. -"How would you like that shade?"</p> - -<p>But the man that was fixing the things looked like a man that sold -mackintoshes at the county fair, and I watched him.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p><p>"You ought to have a longish coat," she says, "you're so tall."</p> - -<p>Just then I saw a woman with gray hair, and I stood staring at her, -wondering if there was anybody's mother that looked as grand as her.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," Mis' Carney said, "look at the things, please. Never mind the -people."</p> - -<p>"Never mind the people." I knew then that they were all I cared about. -It wasn't so much the folks shopping that I saw—it was the girls, the -whole army of girls that was waiting on them. When you get to look at -the shops that way, then you know more about them than you did before. -But the folks on the sidewalks kind of got me too. Out in the car I says -to Mis' Carney:</p> - -<p>"I know! It ain't just school or clothes or you that makes me feel good. -It's something else. It's because I ain't worrying over the rent!"</p> - -<p>I saw the folks on the sidewalks, all hurrying and thinking. I knew them -all now. Half of them were worrying just the way I had been,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> just the -way Rose was, just the way all the girls did. I felt bad for them. I -wanted to take them all off with me, to school or somewheres.</p> - -<p>Then come the evening I'll never forget. Mis' Carney and I had dinner by -ourselves in a little glass room just off the big dining-room; and -afterward we went into the library. She was showing me some books, when -a bell rung, somewheres off in the house, and a maid come with a card.</p> - -<p>"Show him to the drawing-room," Mis' Carney said, and gave me a lot more -books and left me. And then I heard his voice in the next room where -she'd gone. I knew—the minute I heard him speak I knew. I dropped my -books and run to the curtains and stood where I could see.</p> - -<p>And Mr. Ember was standing by the table, with his face turned toward me, -looking just like I'd seen him last, there in Twiney's pasture. One hand -was resting on the table and the other was pushing his hair back from -his forehead, two, three times, kind of as if he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> was tired. And when I -see him, from my head to my feet I begun to tremble. I'd felt like that -once or twice before—once when the team got scared and begun to back -off the bridge.</p> - -<p>"I'm in town for the rest of the winter," he was saying. "I've a few -lectures to pull off—and a lot of proof to keep me busy. What have you -been doing with yourself?"</p> - -<p>Then my heart beat harder. What if she told him about me? And one minute -I was sick with being afraid she would, and next minute I was wild for -fear she wouldn't. I didn't want to see him. I'd said I wasn't going to -see him till I could meet him sometime when I was the way I was going to -be. But I'd have come pretty near to giving up my whole chance of ever -being anything, just to have his hands shut over mine and to hear him -say my name again.</p> - -<p>She didn't tell him, Mrs. Carney wasn't the telling kind. In a few -minutes they begun to talk of other things—Europe and Washington and -theaters. And while I stood there, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>looking at him and looking, it came -over me that to be listening there wouldn't be the way Mrs. Carney would -act, nor the way he'd meant me to act. So I looked at him once, hard -enough to last, the best a look can last, and then I run away up to my -room and locked the door. I stood in the middle of the floor and kind of -flung myself on to something or somebody in the air, that it seemed to -me <i>must</i> have been listening to me.</p> - -<p>"Make me like I ain't," I says. "Make me different! Make me -different—YOU!"</p> - -<p>When I heard the door shut, I went back down-stairs. I wanted to be the -next one to talk to her after he had. She was in the library, putting -the books back. And her face was shining like I'd never seen it.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Cosma," she said, "some people make you feel as if it's a good -world!"</p> - -<p>"It is," I says, "while they're around."</p> - -<p>"Yes," she says, "it is—while they're around."</p> - -<p>That was all she said. Pretty soon she went back in the drawing-room, -and I followed her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> so's to be where he had been. I'd been going to sit -down in the chair where he had sat, but she sat down there. So I stood -by the table. And I was glad it happened that neither of us said -anything for quite a while.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> - -<p>The school was three great buildings a little way from Mrs. Carney's -house. I had never dreamed of anything so grand as those rooms seemed to -me. What I couldn't get over was the padded carpets that you didn't make -a sound when you walked on. The furniture was big pieces, all carved and -hard to dust; and lights that didn't show was burning in the inside -rooms. There was great vases, as tall as I, and pictures as big as the -ceiling of Mrs. Bingy's and my whole room.</p> - -<p>The first days at that school are the kind of nightmare that it hurts to -remember even in the daytime. I begun by feeling so grand. By the second -meal I was wretched. By the time the first evening was half over and the -dancing in the gymnasium, I was sick. School wasn't the way I thought it -was.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p><p>If only they'd taken me out and ducked me, or buried me, or left me on -the roof all night every night. But the ways they had were like pouring -vinegar in a skinned place in my heart. I ain't going to talk about it!</p> - -<p>And yet I never minded their laughing, if only they looked at me when -they laughed. But when they looked at each other and laughed, that -killed me.</p> - -<p>I'd been at the school about six months when one afternoon I was coming -across the field that everybody called the "campus." I'd never called it -that yet—it sounded like putting on. I met a lot of them coming down -from their classes. I used to begin looking at them when they were way -ahead, hoping there was somebody I knew and could speak to. I liked to -speak to them. I'd had an introduction to most of them; but they didn't -always remember me. When they did remember, they didn't always speak. -Some of them done it on purpose. But always I knew which was such. That -afternoon so many of them didn't speak to me that all of a sudden I felt -crazy to get<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> away from them all, off somewhere by myself. I run down -the hill back of the main building. A stone wall went along by the road. -The wall was pretty high, but I put my hands on it the way I used to at -home, and I jumped up on it with my head in some branches. And I says -out loud:</p> - -<p>"I know how Keddie Bingy used to feel when he got drunk."</p> - -<p>"My word!" said somebody. "And how did he feel?"</p> - -<p>I looked down, and there was an automobile drawn up by the wall and a -man in it, rolling a cigarette.</p> - -<p>"Don't you know?" I says.</p> - -<p>"I don't know but I do," says he. "For example, I've been sitting here -one-half hour waiting for my sister. Do I feel the way you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing like," I says, and turned to jump down again.</p> - -<p>"Don't let me drive you away," he says; "I don't mean to bother you. I -beg your pardon like anything."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p><p>"It's all right," I said; "I was going. I didn't want to sit up here. I -don't know what I got up here for, anyway."</p> - -<p>I picked up my books, and he spoke again.</p> - -<p>"If you're really going," he said, "I wonder if I could send a message -by you?"</p> - -<p>"Sure thing," I says.</p> - -<p>"Do you know Antoinette Massy?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I know her when I see her," I said; "I never spoke to her."</p> - -<p>"She's in the tennis court over there—or she said she'd be," he went -on. "Would you mind telling her that her brother has been sitting here -like an image for thirty-six minutes—up to now? And that in five -minutes he won't be here any more?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "Miss Massy! She went up to Mann Hall to rehearse, half an -hour ago. They never get through till dinner time."</p> - -<p>"Gad!" he said; "it takes a man's sister to put him in his true light." -He done something to the car, and then looked at me. "Would—would you -care to come for a little spin?" he asked.</p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i153.jpg" alt="Would you care to come for a little spin" /></div> - -<p class="bold">"Would you care to come for a little spin?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p><p>"I'd care like everything," I says; "but I can't go."</p> - -<p>"No?" he says. "Yes, you can!"</p> - -<p>"I'm not going," I says. "Thanks, though."</p> - -<p>"Would you mind telling me why not?" he says. "Since you say you want -to, you know."</p> - -<p>I couldn't think of anything but the truth.</p> - -<p>"I'm trying to act as nice as I can," I says, "since I've been to this -school. And I guess it's nicer not to go with you."</p> - -<p>His face was pleasant when he kept on looking at me, though he was -laughing at me, too.</p> - -<p>"Look here, then," he said, "will you go with my sister and me some day? -As a favor to me, you know—so you'll get her here on time."</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "I'd love to!"</p> - -<p>"Done," he said. "Tell me your name, and I'll tell her we've got an -engagement with her."</p> - -<p>When he'd gone I jumped down from the wall and ran pell-mell up the -hill. Before I knew it, I was humming. Ain't it the funniest thing how -one little bit of a nice happening from somebody makes you all over like -new?</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p><p>Two days afterward I was leaving the dining-room when I saw Miss -Antoinette Massy coming toward me. My heart begun to beat. She was so -beautiful and dressed like a dream. She's always seemed to me somebody -far off, and different—like somebody that had died and been born again -from the way I was.</p> - -<p>"You're Cosma Wakely, aren't you?" she said. "My brother told me about -meeting you." I couldn't think of a thing to say. I just kept thinking -how the lace of her waist looked as if it hadn't ever been worn before; -and I noticed her pretty, rosy, shining nails. "I wondered if you -wouldn't go for a motor ride with my brother, Gerald, and myself, -to-morrow afternoon?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "I could, like anything."</p> - -<p>And all that night when I woke up, I kept thinking what was going to -happen, and it was in my head like, something saying something. It -wasn't so much for the ride—it was that they'd been the way they'd been -to me. That was it.</p> - -<p>I put on my best dress and my best shoes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> and my other hat; and when I -met Miss Massy in the parlor I see right off that I was dressed up too -much. She had on a sweater and a little cap. I always noticed that about -me—I dressed up when I'd ought not to, and times when I didn't -everybody else was always dressed up.</p> - -<p>Her brother came in, and I hadn't sensed before how good-looking he was. -If ever he had come to Katytown, Lena Curtsy would have met him before -he got half-way from the depot to the post-office.</p> - -<p>Up to then, this was my most wonderful school-day. But it wasn't the -ride. It was because they were both being to me the way they were.</p> - -<p>We stopped at a little road-house for tea. I hated tea, and when they -asked me to have tea, I said so. I said I'd select pop. Going back, it -was the surprise of my school life that far when Antoinette Massy asked -me if I would go home with her at the end of the week.</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "I can't! I can't!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p><p>"Do come," she says; "my brother will run us down. You can take your -work with you."</p> - -<p>"Oh," I says, "it isn't that. I guess you don't understand"—I thought I -ought to tell her just the truth—"I can't act the way you're used to, -I'm afraid," I said. "I'm learning—but I had a lot to know."</p> - -<p>She laughed, and made me go. I wondered why. But I couldn't help going. -I thought of all the mistakes I'd make—but then, I'd learn something, -too. "Just be yourself," Miss Antoinette said. And I said, "Myself -buttered a whole slice of bread and bit it for a week before I noticed -that the rest didn't." And when she said, "Yourself did not. You got -that from other people in the first place," I asked her, "Then, what -<i>is</i> myself?" And she says, "That's what we're at school to find out!"</p> - -<p>It was in a big house on the Hudson that the Massys lived. I saw some -glass houses for flowers. When the door was opened I saw a lot more -flowers and a stained glass window and a big hall fire.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p><p>"Oh!" I says. "Can farm-houses be like that?"</p> - -<p>"What does she mean?" says Mrs. Massy, and shook hands with me. I wanted -to laugh when I looked at her. She was little and thick everywhere, and -she had on a good many things, and she looked so anxious! It didn't seem -as if there was enough things in all the world to make anybody look so -anxious about them.</p> - -<p>Dinner was at half past seven. In Katytown supper is all over by half -past six, and at half past seven the post-office is shut. I had a little -light cloth dress, and I put that on; and then I just set down and -looked around my room. There was a big bed with a kind of a flowered -umbrella over it with lace hanging down; and a little low dressing -table, all white and glass, and my own bath showed through the open -door. And looking around that room and remembering how the house was, I -thought:</p> - -<p>"Oh, if Mother could have had things fixed up a little, maybe she could -have been different<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> herself. Maybe then she'd have been Mother instead -of 'Ma' from the beginning."</p> - -<p>In the drawing-room were Mrs. Massy and Mr. Gerald, her looking like a -little, fat, bright-colored ball, and him like a man on some -stage—better than any man I'd seen in the Katytown opera-house -attractions, even. The dining-room was lovely, and the table was like a -long wide puzzle. I watched Miss Antoinette, and I done like her, word -for word, food for food, tool for tool. They talked more about nothing -than anybody I'd ever heard. Mrs. Massy would take the most innocent -little remark, and worry it like a terrier, and run off with the pieces, -making a new remark of each one. She had things enough around her neck -to choke her if they'd all got to going. There were two guests, enormous -women with lovely velvet belts for waists. They talked in bursts and -gushes and up on their high tiptoes—I can't explain it. It was like -another language, all irregular. I just kept still, and ate, and one or -two things I couldn't comprehend I didn't take any of. Everything would -have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> been all right if only one of the guests hadn't thought of -something funny to tell.</p> - -<p>"Elwell sounded the horn right in the midst of a group of factory girls -to-night," she said. "We were in a tearing hurry and we didn't see them. -And one of them stood still, right in the road, and she said, 'You go -round me.' Why, she might have been killed! and then we should have been -arrested. Elwell had all he could do to swing the car."</p> - -<p>All of a sudden come to me the picture of those girls—the girls I knew, -tracking home at night, dog-tired, dead-tired, from ten hours on their -feet and going home to what they was going home to. I saw 'em with my -heart—Rose and all the rest that I knew and that I didn't know. And the -table I was to, and the lights and the glass, blurred off. Something in -my head did something. I had just sense enough not to say anything, for -I knew I couldn't say enough, or say it right so's I could make it mean -anything. But I shoved back my chair, and I walked out the door.</p> - -<p>In the hall I ran. I got the front door open,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> and I got out on the -porch. I wanted to be away from there. What right did I have to be -there, anyhow? And while I stood there with the wind biting down on me, -all of a sudden it wasn't only Rose and Nettie and the girls I saw, but -it was Mother, too—Mother when I'd used to call her "Ma."</p> - -<p>Mr. Gerald was by me in a minute.</p> - -<p>"Miss Cosma," he said, "what is it?"</p> - -<p>He took my arm—in that wonderful, taking-care way that is so dear in a -man, when it is—and he drew me back into the vestibule.</p> - -<p>"If she speaks like that about those girls again," I said, "I'll throw -my glass of water at her."</p> - -<p>I hated him for what he said. What he said was:</p> - -<p>"By jove! You are magnificent!"</p> - -<p>It took all the strength out of me. "None of you see it," I said. "I -don't know what I'm here for. I don't belong here. I belong out there in -the road with those girls that the car plowed through."</p> - -<p>"I don't know about that," he said. "Why<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> don't you stay here and teach -me something about them? I don't even know what you mean."</p> - -<p>He put me in a chair by the fire, and they sent me some coffee there. I -heard him explaining that I felt a little faint. I wanted to yell, "It's -a lie." I knew, then, that I was a savage—all the pretty little smooth -things they used to cover up with, I wanted to rip up and throw at all -of them.</p> - -<p>"I hate it here," I thought. "I hate the factory. I hate home. I hate -Luke...."</p> - -<p>That was nearly everything that I knew; and I hated them all. Was it me -that everything was wrong with, I wondered? I was looking down at Mr. -Gerald's hands that had moved so dainty and used-to-things all the while -he was eating. That made me think of Mr. Ember's hands when he was -eating that morning at Joe's. These folks all did things like Mr. Ember. -And I'd got to stay there till I knew how to do them, too. But from that -minute I began to wonder why folks that can do things so dainty don't -always live up to it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> in other ways, like it seemed to me he did. And -then I got to thinking about his patience with me, so by the time the -rest came in from the dining-room I was all still again.</p> - -<p>When the guests had gone I was standing by some long curtains when Miss -Antoinette walked over to me. "You lovely thing," she said. "By that -rose curtain you are stunning. Stand still, dear. Gerald, look."</p> - -<p>But I didn't think much about him; and my eyes brimmed up.</p> - -<p>"You called me 'dear,'" I says. "You're about the first one."</p> - -<p>She put her arm around me, and then it come out. Her brother had one -wing of the ground floor all to himself. It was a studio. He painted. -And he wanted to paint me. There was only one thing I thought about.</p> - -<p>"I'll be glad to do that," I says, "if you'll both teach me some of the -things you see I don't know—talking, eating, everything."</p> - -<p>The way they hesitated was so nice for my feelings it was like having my -first lesson then.</p> - -<p>I went down there the whole spring. And<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> there, and to the school, -little by little I learned things. I knew it—I could almost feel it. I -didn't always know what I'd learned, but I knew that it was changing me. -I don't know any better feeling. It's more fun than making a garden. -It's more fun than watching puppies grow. It was almost as much fun as -writing my book. And back of it all was the great big sense, shining and -shining, that I was getting more the way I wanted to be, that I <i>had</i> to -be, if ever I was to see <i>him</i> again. John Ember was in my life all the -time, like somebody saying something.</p> - -<p>Pretty soon Miss Antoinette's maid put my hair up a different way. And -Miss Antoinette had a nice gown of hers altered for me. I'll never -forget the night I first put on that lace dress. We'd motored out as -usual, on a Friday in May, when I'd been going there most three months. -They were going to have a few people for dinner. I'd had a peep at the -table, that looked like a banquet, and I thought: "Not a thing on it, -Cosma Wakely, that you don't know how to use right. Wouldn't Katytown<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> -stick out its eyes?" And when Miss Antoinette's maid put the dress on -me, I most jumped. I wouldn't have believed it was me.</p> - -<p>I remember I come out of my room, loving the way the lace felt all -around me. The hall was lighted bright down-stairs, and, beyond, some -folks were just coming into the vestibule, in lovely colored cloaks. And -all of a sudden I thought:</p> - -<p>"Oh—living is something different from what I always thought! And I -must be one of the ones that's intended to know about it!"</p> - -<p>It was a wonderful, grand feeling; and it was surprising what confidence -it gave me. At the foot of the stairs, one of the maids knocked against -me with a big branched candlestick she was carrying.</p> - -<p>"You should be more careful!" I says to her, sharp. And I couldn't help -feeling like a great lady when she apologized, scared.</p> - -<p>In the drawing-room the first person I walked into was Mr. Gerald. I'd -been seeing him almost every week—usually he and Miss<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> Antoinette drove -me down on Friday nights. But I'd never seen him quite like this.</p> - -<p>"By jove! By jove!" he said, and bowed over my hand just the way I'd -seen him do to other women. "Oh, Cosma!"</p> - -<p>He'd never called me that before. I liked his saying it, and saying it -that way. When I went to meet the rest, and knew he was watching me and -that he liked the way I looked—instead of being embarrassed I thought -it was fun.</p> - -<p>And when it was Mr. Gerald that took me down, and we all went into that -beautiful room, and to the dinner table that I wasn't afraid of—I can't -explain it, but everything I'd ever done before seemed a long way off -and I didn't want to bother remembering.</p> - -<p>It was a happy two hours. After a while I began to want to say little -things, and I found I could say them so nobody looked surprised, or -glanced at anybody else after I had spoken. That was a wonderful thing, -when I first noticed that they didn't glance at each other when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> I said -anything. I saw I could say the truth right out, if I only laughed about -it a little bit, and they'd call it "quaint," and laugh too, instead of -thinking I was "bad form." There was quite an old man on my right, and I -liked that. I always got along better with them than the middle ones -that wanted to talk about themselves.</p> - -<p>Just as soon as the men came up-stairs, Mr. Gerald came where I was. He -wanted me to go down the rooms to see a "Chartron." I thought it was -some kind of furniture; but when I got there it was a picture of Miss -Antoinette, and we sat down with our backs to it.</p> - -<p>"How are you?" Mr. Gerald said—his voice was kind of like he kept boxes -of them and opened one special for you. "Tell me about yourself."</p> - -<p>"I feel," I said, "as if I'd been sitting on the edge of things all my -life, and I'd just jumped over in. It's a pity you never were born -again. You can't tell how it feels."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I was," he said, "I've been born again."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p><p>"Well, didn't it make you want to forget everything that had happened -to you before?" I said.</p> - -<p>"It does," said Mr. Gerald; "and I have. You know, don't you, that I -count time now from the day I met you?"</p> - -<p>"Great guns!" I said.</p> - -<p>It took me off my feet so that I didn't remember to say "My word," like -they'd told me. I sat and stared at him.</p> - -<p>He laughed at me. "You wonder!" he said. "They'll never spoil you, after -all. Cosma,—couldn't you? Couldn't you?"</p> - -<p>"Why, Mr. Gerald," I says, "I'd as soon think of loving the president."</p> - -<p>"Don't bother about him," he says. "Love me."</p> - -<p>Some more folks came in then to see the Chartron, and I never saw him -any more that night till they were leaving. Then he told me Miss -Antoinette was going back on Sunday, but he'd run me in town on Monday -morning, if I'd go. I said I'd go.</p> - -<p>It was raining that Monday morning, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> everything smelled sort of -old-fashioned and nice, and the rain beat in our faces.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," he said, "don't keep me waiting."</p> - -<p>"Why not?" I said. I can see just the way the road went stretching in -front of us. I looked at it, and I thought <i>why not</i>, <i>why not</i>.... I'd -been saved from Katytown. I'd been saved from Luke, from Mr. Carney, -from the factory. I'd been given my school, and now this chance. <i>Why -not?</i></p> - -<p>"Because I love you so much that it isn't fair to me," he said.</p> - -<p>And he thought he was answering what I had said, but instead he was -really answering what I had thought.</p> - -<p>"You like your new life, don't you?" he said. "Why not have it all the -time, then? And if you love me, even a little, I can make you happy—I -know I can."</p> - -<p>"And could I make you happy?" I said.</p> - -<p>"Gad!" said Mr. Gerald.</p> - -<p>The road was empty in the soft beating rain. With the slow and perfectly -sure way he did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> everything he ran the car to the curb and turned to me.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," he said.</p> - -<p>I looked at him. Just a word of mine, and my whole life would be -settled, to be lived with him, and with all that I began to suspect I -was meant to have. I kept looking at him. I felt a good deal the way I -had felt when I looked at a long-distance telephone and knew, with a -word, I could talk a thousand miles. And I didn't feel much more.</p> - -<p>He took me in his arms and drew my wet face close to his, that was warm, -as his lips were warm.</p> - -<p>"I want you for my wife," he said.</p> - -<p>It seemed so wonderful that he should love me that I thought mostly -about that, and not about whether I loved him at all. I sat still and -said:</p> - -<p>"I don't see how you can love me. There's so much I've got to learn yet, -before I'm like the ones you know."</p> - -<p>"You're adorable," he said; "you're <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>glorious. I love you. I want you -with me always.... Cosma! Say maybe. Say just that!"</p> - -<p>So then I did the thing so many girls had done before me and will do -after me:</p> - -<p>"Well, then," I said, "maybe."</p> - -<p>He frightened me, he was so glad. I felt left out. I wished that I was -glad like that.</p> - -<p>But it was surprising how much more confidence I had in myself after I -knew that a man like Mr. Gerald loved me.</p> - -<p>"That's because," I said to me, "women have counted only when men have -loved them."</p> - -<p>And I thought that had ought to be different.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> - -<p>One day toward spring I went down to see Mrs. Bingy. She had three women -in her room every day, making the lace. She had regular customers from -the shops. When I went in she was in a good black dress and was sitting -holding the baby, that was beginning now to talk.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Cossy," she says, "look what I got," and pointed to some papers.</p> - -<p>"Katytown papers," I said. "I don't suppose there's a soul there outside -the family that I care whether I ever see again or not."</p> - -<p>"Why, Cossy," she said, "there's Lena—"</p> - -<p>"Lena Curtsy!" I said. "Good heavens! Mrs. Bingy, I wish you wouldn't -call me 'Cossy.'"</p> - -<p>"I always do forget the Cosma," she said humbly; "I'll try to remember -better. But Lena Curtsy—Cossy, she's married to Luke."</p> - -<p>"Good for them," I said; "and I suppose<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> they had a charivari that woke -the cemetery. That's Katytown."</p> - -<p>"They've gone to housekeeping to Luke's father's," said Mrs. Bingy. -"Don't you want to read about it, Cossy—Cosma?"</p> - -<p>I took the paper. "Mrs. Bingy," I said, "I came down to show you my new -dress."</p> - -<p>"It's a beauty," she said. "I noticed it first thing when I see you. It -must be all-silk." She examined it with careful fingers. "I made this of -mine myself," she added, proud.</p> - -<p>"Do you know anything about Keddie?" I asked her.</p> - -<p>She begun to cry. "That's all that's the matter," she says. "The first -money I earned I sent him enough to go and take the cure. The letter -come back to me, marked that they couldn't find him. So I took the baby -and run down to Katytown, and, sure enough, the house was rented to -strangers and not a stick of furniture left in it. He'd sold it all off -and went West. And me with the money to give him the cure, when it's too -late. I ought," she says, "never to have left him."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p><p>"Mrs. Bingy," I says, "do you honestly believe that?"</p> - -<p>"No," says she, "I don't. But it's a terrible thing to own up to. I saw -your Ma in Katytown."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" I says. "How is she? She don't write. She just wrote once and put -in a dollar chicken money."</p> - -<p>"They think you'll be back yet," Mrs. Bingy says. "Your Pa says, 'Her -place is here to home with her Ma. Her Ma's getting along in years now, -and she needs her to home, and she'd ought to come back.'"</p> - -<p>"Why don't the boys come back?" I says.</p> - -<p>"Oh, they're working," Mrs. Bingy says, surprised.</p> - -<p>"So am I," I says. "Mrs. Bingy! Do you think I ought to go back?"</p> - -<p>She leaned forward and spoke it behind her hand.</p> - -<p>"No," she says, "I don't. But it's a terrible thing to own up to."</p> - -<p>I went back to the school that Monday morning, wondering why it seems -hard to own up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> to so many things that's true. If they're true, the -least you can do is to own up to them, ain't it?</p> - -<p>It was some time before this that I'd made up my mind to try for the -Savage Prize. The Savage Prize was open to the whole school, and it was -for the best oration given at a contest the week before commencement. I -was pretty good at what I called speaking pieces, and what they called -"vocational expression." And I had some things in my head that I wanted -to write about. I'd decided to write on "Growing," and I meant by that -just getting different from what you were, that my head was so full of. -I had a good deal to say, beginning with that white god that I knew all -about now. But Rose Everly didn't know. And I wondered why.</p> - -<p>One day the principal called me in her office.</p> - -<p>"Miss Spot has showed me the rough draft of your oration," she said. "It -is admirable, Cosma. But I should not emphasize unduly the painful fact -that there are many to whom<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> growth is denied. Dwell on the inspiring -features of the subject. Let it bring out chiefly sweetness and light."</p> - -<p>"But—" I says.</p> - -<p>"That will do, Cosma. Thank you," said the principal.</p> - -<p>While I was working on the Savage Prize oration, trying to make it "all -sweetness and light," Antoinette sent me a note, in history class.</p> - -<blockquote><p>"Jolly larks!" she said, "Friday. Dinner at the Dudleys' studio. -Opera in the Dudleys' box. Our house for Sunday. Look your best. -Baddy Dudley is back—You remember about him?"</p></blockquote> - -<p>Mr. Gerald had been promising to take us to the Dudleys' studio. Mr. -Dudley's brother, "Baddy," spending that winter in Italy, had had a -kodak picture of Antoinette and me and had sent me messages through -Gerald.</p> - -<p>On the night of the party I was dressing in my room at the school when a -maid came up with a message. A girl was down-stairs to see me. My lace -gown and a white cloak that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> Antoinette had loaned me were spread on the -bed. I was just finishing my hair and tying in it a gold rose of -Antoinette's when my visitor came in. It was Rose Everly.</p> - -<p>I'll never forget how Rose looked. She had on a little tight brown -jacket and a woolen cap. Her skirt was wet and her boots were muddy. She -stood winking in the light, and panting a little.</p> - -<p>"My!" she said, "you live high up, don't you?" Then she stood staring at -me. "Cosma," she said, "how beautiful!"</p> - -<p>She dropped into a chair. In that first thing she said she had been the -old Rose. Then she got still and shy, and sat openly looking at my -clothes. She was not more than twenty-one, and the factory life had not -told on her too much. Yet some of the life seemed to have gone out of -her. She talked as if not all of her was there. She sat quietly and she -looked as if she were resting all over. But her eyes were bright and -interested as she looked at my dress.</p> - -<p>I said, "People have been good to me, Rose. They gave me these."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p><p>"You're different, too," she said, looking hard at me. "You talk -different, too. Oh, dear. I bet you won't do it!"</p> - -<p>"Tell me what it is," I said, and put the lace dress over my head.</p> - -<p>"It's the first meeting since the fire," Rose said. "I wanted you -there."</p> - -<p>I asked her what fire, and her eyes got big.</p> - -<p>"Didn't you know," she said, "about the fire in our factory? Didn't you -know the doors were locked again, and five of us burned alive?"</p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i181.jpg" alt="Didn't you know about the fire in our factory" /></div> - -<p class="bold">"Didn't you know about the fire in our factory?"</p> - -<p>I hadn't known. That seemed to me so awful. There I was, fed and clothed -and not worrying about rent, and here this thing had happened, and I nor -none of us hadn't even heard of it. Miss Manners and Miss Spot didn't -like us to read the newspapers too much.</p> - -<p>"It broke out in the pressroom," Rose said. "That girl that was feeding -your old press—they never even found her."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Rose," I said. "Rose, Rose!" And when I could I asked her what it -was that she had come wanting me to do.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p><p>She made a little tired motion. "It ain't only the fire," she said. -"Things have got worse with us. We've got three times the fines. Since -they've stopped locking the doors, they make us be searched every night, -and the new forewoman—she's fierce. And we can't get the girls -interested. They say it ain't no use to try. We want to try to have one -more meeting to show 'em there is some use. And we thought, mebbe—we -knew you could make 'em see, Cosma. If you'd come and talk to 'em."</p> - -<p>"When would it be?" I asked her.</p> - -<p>"They've called the meeting for to-morrow night," she told me.</p> - -<p>"To-morrow!" I said. "Oh, Rose—no, then I can't. I'm going out of town -to-night, for two days, up the Hudson...."</p> - -<p>I stopped. She got up and came to fasten my sash for me.</p> - -<p>"I thought mebbe you couldn't," she said; "but it was worth trying."</p> - -<p>"Have it next week," I said. "Have the meeting then."</p> - -<p>But they had postponed once—some one,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> Rose said, had "peached" to the -forewoman. For to-morrow night the men had loaned them a hall. She bent -to my sash. I could see her in my glass. I was ashamed.</p> - -<p>She told me what had come to the girls—marriage, promotion, disgrace. -Two of them had disappeared.</p> - -<p>"I'm so sorry," I kept on saying. Then the maid came to tell me the -motor was there. I put on my cloak with the fur and the bright lining. -It had made me feel magnificent and happy. With Rose there, I felt all -different.</p> - -<p>She slipped away and went out in the dark. The light was on in the -limousine. Mr. Gerald came running up the steps for me. Antoinette was -there already. I went down and got in. There was nothing else to do.</p> - -<p>The drive curved back around the dormitory, and so to the street again. -As we came out on the roadway, we passed Rose, walking.</p> - -<p>I thought: "She's walking till the street-car comes." But I knew it was -far more likely that she was walking all the way to her room.</p> - -<p>At the Dudleys' studio I forgot Rose for a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> little while. It was a great -dark room with bright colors and dim lamps. Mrs. Dudley had on a dress -of leopard skins, with a pointed crown on her head. There were twenty or -more there, and among them "Baddy" Dudley. From the minute I came in the -room he came and sat beside me. He was big and ugly, but there was -something about him that made you forget all the other men in the room.</p> - -<p>It was a wonderful dinner. When coffee came, the lights flashed up, a -curtain was lifted, and Mrs. Dudley danced. The lights rose and fell as -she danced, and with them the music. Every one broke into a low humming -with the music. Then she sank down, and the lights went out, and we sat -in the dark until she came back to dance again. "I shall never be -happy," said Mr. Dudley as we sat so, "until I see you dance, in a -costume which I shall design for you."</p> - -<p>"Will you dance with me?" I asked him. That was the most fun—that I -could think of things to say, just the way Lena Curtsy used<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> to—only -now they were never the kind that made anybody look shocked.</p> - -<p>"Make the appointment in the Fiji Islands or in Fez," he said; "and -there I will be."</p> - -<p>Mr. Gerald came and sat down beside me.</p> - -<p>"Oh, very well, Massy—to the knife," says Mr. Dudley.</p> - -<p>It was half after nine when we left for the opera. The second act had -begun, which seemed to me a wicked waste of tickets. But even then Mr. -Gerald had no intention of listening. He sat beside me and talked.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," he said, "I'm about ten times as miserable as usual to-night. -Can't you say something."</p> - -<p>I said, "Tell me: Is that what they call a minor? Because I want those -for my heaven."</p> - -<p>"I want you for my heaven," Mr. Gerald observed. "Dear, I'm terribly in -earnest. Don't make me run a race with that bally ass."</p> - -<p>"Don't race," I said. "Listen."</p> - -<p>"I am listening," said Gerald, "to hear what you will say."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p><p>All at once it flashed over me: Cosma Wakely, from a farm near -Katytown! Here I was, loving my new life and longing to keep it up.</p> - -<p>"You're right where you belong," he went on, "looking just as you look -now. But you do need me, you know, to complete the picture."</p> - -<p>It was true. I did belong where I was. By a miracle I had got there. Why -was I hesitating to stay? If it had been Lena Curtsy, or Rose, I -couldn't imagine them feeling as if all this belonged to them. It was -true. There must be these distinctions. Why should I not accept what had -come? And then help the girls—help Father and Mother. Think of the good -I could do as Gerald's wife....</p> - -<p>The music died, just like something alive. The curtain went down. And in -the midst of all the applause, and the silly bowing on the stage, and -the chatter in the box, I looked in the box next to ours. And there sat -John Ember.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> - -<p>He was sitting very near me, leaning his arm on the velvet rail which -divided the boxes. He was looking at the stage. Two young girls and a -very beautiful woman, beautifully dressed, were with him. Save for his -formal dress, he looked exactly as he looked when I had said good-by to -him in Twiney's pasture.</p> - -<p>I was terrified for fear he should turn and look at me. I longed, as I -had never longed for anything, to have him turn and look. I shrank back -lest I should find that I must speak to him. I was wild with the wish to -lean and speak his name. What if he had forgotten? Not until I caught -the lift of his brow as he turned, the line of his chin, the touch of -his hand, already familiar, to his forehead, did I know how well I had -remembered. And then, abruptly, I was shot through with a sweetness and -a pride: The time had come! I could meet him as I had dreamed of -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>meeting him, speak to him as I had hoped sometime to speak to him, as -some one a little within his world....</p> - -<p>"The bally trouble with opera—" Gerald was beginning.</p> - -<p>"Please, please!" I said. "You talked right through that act, Gerald. -Let me sit still now!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Ember, his face turned somewhat toward the house, was talking to the -woman beside him.</p> - -<p>" ... the new day," he said. "Such a place as this gives one hope. For -all the folly of it, some do care. Here is music—a good deal -segregated, in a place apart, for folk to come and participate. And they -come—by jove, you know, they come!"</p> - -<p>The woman said something which I did not hear.</p> - -<p>"Not as pure an example as a symphony concert," he said, "no. There they -demand nothing—no accessories, no deception, no laughter—even no -story! That is music, pure and undefiled, and, it seems to me, really -socialized.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> There participation is complete, with no interventions. I -tell you we're coming on! Any day now, the drama may do the same thing!"</p> - -<p>He listened to the woman again, and nodded, without looking at her. That -made me think of a new wonder—of what it would be to have him -understand one like that.</p> - -<p>"Ah, yes," he said, "there's the heartbreak. God knows how long it will -be before these things will be for more than the few. This whole -thing,"—his arm went out toward the house—"and us with it, are sitting -on the chests of the rest of them. And that isn't so bad, bad as it is. -The worst is that we don't even know it."</p> - -<p>"But what is one to do?" she cried—her voice was so eager that I caught -some of what she said. "What can one do?"</p> - -<p>"Find your corner and dig like a devil," he said. "I suppose I should -say go at it like a god. Only we don't seem to know how to do -that—yet."</p> - -<p>He sat silent for a minute, looking over the house.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p><p>"We don't even half know that the other fellow is here," he said. "The -isolation in audiences is frightful. Look at us now—we don't even guess -we're all on the same job." He laughed. "We need to unionize!"</p> - -<p>Some one else came to their box and joined them. He rose, moved away, -talked with them all. Then he came to his place again, very near me, and -sat silent while the others talked. I could see his head against the -velvet stage curtain, and his fine clear profile. But now it was as if I -were looking at him down a measureless distance.</p> - -<p>I looked down at my yellow dress and my yellow slippers, at my hands -that were manicured under my long gloves. I thought of the things they -had taught me, about moving and speaking and eating. I thought how proud -I was that I had made myself different. And to-night, when I first saw -him in that box, it was as if I had come running to him, like a little -child with a few bangles—and I had thought I could meet him now, almost -like an equal.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p><p>And I saw now that the girl who had sat there outside the Katytown inn -and had eaten her peaches, and had tried to flirt with him, wasn't much -farther away from him—not much farther away—than I was, there in the -opera box in my yellow dress, with a year of school behind me. And my -only chance to help in all this that he understood and lived was to go -with Rose; and I had let that slip, so that I could come here and show -off how well I looked, with my words—and my hair—done different.</p> - -<p>The place where he lived every day of his life was a place that I had -never gone in or guessed or dreamed could be. He was living for some -other reason than I had ever found out about. And I had thought that I -was almost ready to see him <i>now</i>!</p> - -<p>As far as I could, I drew back toward the partition, out of his possible -sight. But I heard the last act as I had never heard music -before—because I heard it as he was hearing it, as we all over the -house might have been listening to it. I listened with him. And all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> the -anguish and striving in the world were in the music and the music's way -of trying to make this clear. It said it so plain that I wondered all of -us didn't stand up in our places and "go at it like gods."</p> - -<p>Before the curtain, and in the high moment of the act, they came for us. -Mrs. Dudley liked to go down and give her carriage number early, -especially when a supper was on. So we went, and I left him there. I saw -him last against the crude setting of a prison, with the music -remembering back to what it had been saying long before.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> - -<p>There is nothing more wonderful in the world than the minute when all -that you have always been seeing begins to look like something else. It -happened to me when I sat down at our table at the Ritz-Carlton, a table -which had been reserved for us and was set with orchids and had four -waiters, like moons.</p> - -<p>I sat between Gerald and Mr. Baddy Dudley.</p> - -<p>I looked up at Gerald, and I thought, "You're very kind. I owe you a -great deal. But is <i>this</i> the way you are? Were you like this all the -time?"</p> - -<p>Then I looked up at Mr. Baddy Dudley. I wanted to say to him: "Ugh! -You're all locked up in your body, and you can't drop it away. Why -didn't you tell me?"</p> - -<p>Across the table was Mrs. Dudley, in flesh-pink and pearls. I thought of -her dancing, in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> the leopard skin and the pointed crown; and it seemed -to me that she was dead, a long time ago, and here she was, and she -didn't dream it herself.</p> - -<p>Here and there were the others; they seemed to fill the table with their -high voices and their tip-top speech and their strong, big white -shoulders. They were so kind—but I wondered if otherwise they had ever -been born at all, and what made them think that they had?</p> - -<p>Of them all, Antoinette was the best, because she was just -sketched—yet. She could rub herself out and do it nearly all over -again; and something about her looked anxious and hopeful, and as if it -was waiting to see if that wasn't what she would do.</p> - -<p>Then I tried to look myself in the face. And it seemed to me as if I -didn't find any of me there at all.</p> - -<p>I ate what they brought me; I answered what they said to me. But all the -time they were all as far off as the other tables of folk, and the -waiters, whom I didn't know at all.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> And all the while I looked around -the big white room, and up at the oval of the ceiling, and—"This whole -thing, and us with it, is sitting on the chests of the rest of them," I -thought. I wondered about Rose. If she walked, she must have got home -about the time I got to the opera. Rose! She was real, and she was -awake. She had come all that way to get me to help her to wake the rest. -Was that what he meant by digging like a devil?</p> - -<p>When we left the hotel, toward two o'clock, there was nothing to do but -to motor on with the rest. When we reached the Massys', the time was -already still, because it expected morning. The Dudleys and Mr. Baddy -Dudley had come up with us. When at last I got the window open in my -room, I was in time to see a little lift of gray in the sky beyond the -line of trees on the terrace.</p> - -<p>"The new day," I said. "The new day. Cosma Wakely, have you got enough -backbone in you to stand up to it?"</p> - -<p>It was surprising how little backbone it took<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> the next afternoon. What -I had to do was what I wanted to do. All the forenoon, no one was -stirring. It was eleven before coffee came to our rooms. I had heard Mr. -Dudley calling a dog somewhere about, so I had kept to my room for fear -of meeting him. At one o'clock there were guests for luncheon. When they -started back to town I told Antoinette that I wanted to go with them. I -meant to get to Rose's meeting.</p> - -<p>"Nonsense!" she said. "Have you forgotten dinner? And the dancing?"</p> - -<p>I said that I was worried about my examinations, and that I wanted to -get back. When I first came to the Massys' I would have told them the -truth.</p> - -<p>The long ride down was like a still hand laid on something beating. I -liked being alone as much as once I had dreaded it.</p> - -<p>We had been late in setting off. It was almost six o'clock when I -reached the school. When I had eaten and dressed and was on my way to -the hall, it was already long past the time that Rose had named for the -meeting.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p><p>All the girls were in their seats. There were only Rose and one or two -more on the platform. The hall was low and smoky. The girls were nervous -about the doors, and questioned everybody that came in. The girl at the -door began to question me when I went in, but Rose saw me.</p> - -<p>"Let her come in," she called out. "She's our next speaker!"</p> - -<p>And when I heard the ring in her voice, and saw her face and felt her -hand close on mine, and knew how glad she was that I had come, I was -happy. Happier than I had ever once been at the Massys'.</p> - -<p>I went right up on the platform. And my head and my heart had never been -so full of things to say. And the girls listened.</p> - -<p>Did you ever face a roomful of girls who work in a factory? Any factory? -But especially in a factory where, instead of treating them like one -side of the business, the owners treat them like necessary evils? You -wouldn't ever have supposed that the heads of the Carney factory were -dependent the least bit on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> girls who did the work for them. You'd -have thought that it was just money and machinery and the buildings that -did the work, and that the girls were being let work for a kindness. I -never could understand it. When the business needed more money, the -owners gave it to it. When the machinery needed oil or repairs or new -parts, it got them. When the buildings had to have improvements, they -got them. But when the girls needed more light or air or wages or -shorter hours or a cleaner place to be, or better safety, they just got -laughed at and rowed at and told to learn their places, or not told -anything at all. And more girls come, younger, fresher, that didn't need -things.</p> - -<p>"If I was only my machine," I had heard Rose say that night, "I'd have -plenty of oil and wool and the right shuttles. But I'm nothing but the -operator, and the machine has the best care. And if there comes a -fire—<i>the machinery is insured</i>. But we ain't."</p> - -<p>I have not much remembrance of what I said to the girls that night. -There must have been a hundred of them in the hall. And I know<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> that as -I stood there, looking into their faces, knowing them as I knew them, -with their striving for a life like other folks, there—suddenly ringed -round them—I saw the double tier of boxes of the night before, and I -heard his voice:</p> - -<p>" ... This whole place here, and we with them, are on the chests of the -others."</p> - -<p>I had no bitterness. But I had the extreme of consciousness that I had -ever reached—not of myself, but of all of us, and of the need of -helping on our common growth. They were to stand together, inviolably -together, for the fostering of that growth, I told them. An injury to -one was an injury to them all—because they were together. And the -employers of whom they made their demands were no enemies, but victims, -too, who must be helped to see, by us who happen to have had the good -fortune to be able to see the need first.</p> - -<p>I remember how I ended. I heard myself saying it as if it were some one -else speaking:</p> - -<p>"I'm with you. You must let me plan with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> you. But I can't plan with a -few of you, when the rest don't care. I want you all."</p> - -<p>When the evening was over, and I had found those I knew and met those -whom I didn't know, and had set down my name with the list that grew -before the door, made up of those who were willing "not to fight, but to -help," I stood for a minute in the lower hallway with Rose.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Cosma," she said, "I've got to tell you something. I done you dead -wrong. I thought last night that you'd gone over—that you didn't care -any more."</p> - -<p>"I didn't," I said. "It <i>had</i> got me—the thing that gets folks."</p> - -<p>Next day I rehearsed my oration for the Savage Prize contest. When I'd -finished, Miss Spot told me that I needn't practise it any more before -her—just to say it over in my room through the three days until the -contest was to take place.</p> - -<p>"You deliver it as well as I could myself, Cosma," she said.</p> - -<p>So I walked back to my room, tore up my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> oration, and set to work to -write another. My head and my heart were full of what that other was to -be. I had been beating and pricking with it all night long after the -meeting.</p> - -<p>Savage Prize Day was a great day at the school. We were given engraved -invitations to send out. I sent mine to Mrs. Bingy and Rose and the -girls in the factory. I knew they couldn't come; but I knew, too, they'd -like getting something engraved. Only it happened that not only Mrs. -Bingy came—Rose and the girls came, too. Handed to them with their pay -envelope had been the notice to quit. Somebody had told the -superintendent about that meeting. Six of the leaders were let out. I -saw them all sitting there when I got up on the platform. And they gave -me strength, there in all that lot of well-dressed, soft-voiced folks. -They were dear people, too. Only they were dear, different. And they -didn't understand anything whatever about life, the way Mrs. Bingy and -Rose and I did. And that wasn't those folks' fault either. But they -seemed to take credit for it.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p><p>Antoinette had an oration. Hers was on "Our Boat Is Launched; But -Where's the Shore?" It told about how to do. It said everybody should be -successful with hard work. It said that industry is the best policy and -bound to win. It said that America is the land where all who will only -work hard enough may have any position they like. It said that -everything is possible. Everybody enjoyed Antoinette's oration. She had -some lovely roses and violets, and all her relatives sat looking so -pleased. Her father had promised her a diamond pendant, if she got the -prize.</p> - -<p>There was another on "Evolution." She said we should be patient and not -hurry things, because short-cuts wasn't evolution. I wondered what made -her take it for granted God is so slow. But I liked the way her -bracelets tinkled when she raised her arm, and I think she did, too.</p> - -<p>Then it was my turn. I hadn't said anything to Miss Spot about changing -my oration. I thought if I could do it once to please them, I could do -it again. I worked hard on mine,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> because the prize was a hundred -dollars; and if Mrs. Carney wouldn't take it, I wanted it for Rose and -the girls. I thought Miss Spot would be pleased to think I did it -without any rehearsing. I imagined how she would tell visitors about it, -during ice-cream.</p> - -<p>I didn't keep a copy of it, but some of it was like this:</p> - -<blockquote><p>I decided to write about "Growing," because I think that growing is -the most important thing in the world. I believe that this is what -we are for. But some ways to grow aren't so important as others.</p> - -<p>For example, I was born on a farm near a little town. At first my -body grew, but not my mind. Only through district school. Then it -stopped and waited for something to happen—going away, getting -married, et cetera. Soon I met somebody who showed me that my mind -must keep on growing.</p> - -<p>It seems queer, but nobody had ever said anything to me about -growing. All that they said to me was about "behaving." And -especially about doing as I was told.</p> - -<p>Then I came to the city and I worked in a factory. Right away I -found out that there the last thing they thought about was anybody -growing. They thought chiefly about hurrying.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> Not a word was ever -said about growing. And yet, I suppose, all the time that was our -chief business.</p> - -<p>One day I went to the Museum, and I saw a large white statue of -Apollo Belvedere. The other people there seemed to know about him. -I didn't know about him, or any of the rest of the things; and I -went outside and cried. How was I to get to know, when nobody ever -said anything to me about him? Or about any of the things I didn't -know. I wasn't with people who knew things I didn't know. Or who -knew anything about growing.</p> - -<p>Then I came to this school. I've been here and I've learned a great -deal. Countries and capitals and what is shipped and how high the -mountains are, and how to act and speak and eat. I know that you -have to have all these. But I am writing about some education that -shows you how to be on account of what life is. And about how to -arrange education so that every one can have it, and not some of us -girls have it, and some of us not have anything but the -machines....</p></blockquote> - -<p>I hadn't meant to say much about this. But all of a sudden,—while I -stood there speaking to that dressed-up roomful, with all the girls down -in front soft and white, and taken care<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> of and promised diamond -pendants, it come over me—the difference between them and Rose and the -girls there on the back seats. And before I knew I was going to, I began -to get outside my oration as I planned it, and to talk about those -girls, and about where did their chance come in.... And I finished by -begging these girls here, that had every chance to grow, to do something -for the other girls that didn't have a chance to grow and never would -have a chance.</p> - -<p>"I don't know why you have it and why they don't," I said. "Maybe when -we grow up and get out in the world we'll understand that better. But it -can't be right the way it is. And can't we help them?"</p> - -<p>Some clapped their hands when I was done. There was another oration on -"Success," and one on "Opportunity," and then came the judges' decision.</p> - -<p>It was a big disappointment. I thought the other orations were so -wishy-washy, it didn't seem possible mine could have been any more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> so. -But it must have been, because only one of the judges voted for me. He -said something about "not so much subject matter as originality of -thought." The other two judges voted for Antoinette. That night, by -special delivery, she got her diamond pendant.</p> - -<p>Rose wrote a note on the back of her program. "Oh, Cosma, this is the -most wonderful thing that ever happened to the girls. I never knew -anybody else ever heard about us or cared about us. We'll never forget."</p> - -<p>When I got back to the dormitory, somebody was waiting for me in the -reception-room, and it was Gerald. He drew me over to a window, talking -all the way.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," he said, "by jove, I never heard anything like that. I say—how -did you ever get them to let you do it?... They'd never seen it? -Rich—<i>rich</i>! You sweet dove of an anarchist, you—"</p> - -<p>"Don't Gerald," I said.</p> - -<p>"Ripping," said he, "simply ripping! I never saw anything so beautiful -as you before all that raft. You looked like the well-known angels,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> -Cosma. And you ought to see my portrait of you now! You dear!"</p> - -<p>"Don't, Gerald," I said.</p> - -<p>He stared at me. "I say—you aren't taking to heart that miserable -hundred dollars! Cosma dearest! Oh, I'm mad about you ... this June, ... -this June—"</p> - -<p>"Please, please, Gerald," I said. "Don't you see? Those girls there -to-day. They're your sort and your people's sort. I'm not that...."</p> - -<p>He set himself to explain something to me. I could see it in his sudden -attitude. "Look here, Cosma," he said; "don't you understand the joy it -would be for a man to have a hand in training the girl he wants to have -for his wife?" At that, I looked at him with attention. "Let me be," he -went on, "your teacher, lover, husband. Gad, think what it will be to -have the shaping of the woman you will make! Can't you understand a man -being mad about that?"</p> - -<p>I answered him very carefully. "A man, maybe. But not the woman."</p> - -<p>"What?" said Gerald blankly.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p><p>"I'll make myself," I said. "And then maybe I'll pick out a man who has -made himself. And if we love each other, we'll marry."</p> - -<p>"But," he said, "the sweetness of having you fit, day after day, into -the dream that I have of what you are going to be—"</p> - -<p>So then I told him. "Gerald," I said, "I wasn't meant to live your life. -I've got to find my job in the world—whatever that is. I've got to get -away from you—from you all—from everybody, Gerald!"</p> - -<p>"Good heavens!" he said. "Cosma, you're tired—you're nervous—"</p> - -<p>I looked at him quite calmly. "If," I said, "when I state some -conviction of mine, any man ever tells me again that I'm nervous, I'll -tell him he's—he's <i>drunk</i>. There's just as much sense in it."</p> - -<p>I gave him both my hands. "Gerald," I said, "you dear man, your life -isn't my life. I don't want it to be my life. That's all."</p> - -<p>Afterward, when I went up-stairs, with that peculiar, heavy lonesomeness -that comes from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> the withdrawal of this particular interest in this -particular way, I wondered if the life I was planning was made up of -such withdrawals, such hurts, such vacancies.</p> - -<p>And then I remembered the way I had felt when I walked home from the -meeting that Sunday night; and it seemed to me there are ways of -happiness in the world beside which one can hardly count some of the -ways of pleasure that one calls happiness now.</p> - -<p>In my room that night I found a parcel. It was roughly wrapped in paper -that had been used before. From it fell a white scarf and a paper.</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Cossy</span> (the letter was written in pencil) I am going to send -you this whether you get the prize or whether you don't. If you -didn't get it, I guess you need the present worse. It's the nubia I -wore on my wedding trip. I sha'n't want it any more. I enclose one -dollar and your Pa sends one dollar to get you something with for -yourself. With love,</p> - -<p class="right">"<span class="smcap">Ma.</span></p> - -<p>"P. S. My one dollar is egg money, so it's my own it ain't from him -I raised them."</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p><p>Suddenly, as I read, there came over me the first real longing that I -had ever had in my life for Katytown, and for home.</p> - -<p>One more incident belonged to Savage Prize Oration Day.</p> - -<p>Neither Miss Manners nor Miss Spot said anything to me about my oration. -But in commencement week Mrs. Carney came in to see me.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," she said, "I have a letter here which I must show you."</p> - -<p>I read the letter. It said:</p> - -<blockquote><p>"Dear Mrs. Carney:</p> - -<p>"After due consideration we deem it advisable to inform you that in -our judgment the spirit and attitude of Cosma Wakely are not in -conformity with the spirit of our school.</p> - -<p>"We have ever striven to maintain here an attitude of sweetness and -light, and to exclude everything of a nature disturbing to young -ladies of immature mind. Cosma is not only opinionated, but her -knowledge and experience are out of harmony with the knowledge and -experience of our clientèle. We have regretfully concluded to -suggest to you, therefore, that she be entered elsewhere to -complete her course.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p><p>"Thanking you, my dear Mrs. Carney, we beg to remain,</p> - -<p class="right">"Respectfully yours,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> -"<span class="smcap">Matilda Manners</span>, <br /> -"<span class="smcap">Emily Spot</span>."<span class="s3"> </span></p></blockquote> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> - -<p>I drop five years—so much in the living, so little in the retrospect!</p> - -<p>Upon that time I entered with one thought: The university. At the school -I had always been ahead of my class, a meager enough accomplishment -there. I had browsed through the books of the third- and fourth-year -girls, glad that I found so little that I could not have mastered then. -Now, at Mrs. Carney's suggestion and with her help, I took some -tutoring; and, what with overwork and summer sessions and entering -"special" once more, I made the university, and, toward the close of my -fifth year, was nearing my graduation. A part of my expenses I had paid -myself. And how did I do that? By making lace for Mrs. Keddie Bingy!</p> - -<p>Life is so wonderful that it makes you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> afraid, and it makes you glad, -and it makes you sure.</p> - -<p>In the first year after I left Miss Spot and Miss Manners, I read in one -of the papers that John Ember had gone to China on an expedition which -was to spend two years in the interior. I wouldn't have believed that -the purpose could have dropped so completely out of everything—school, -town, life, I myself, became something different. Until then I had not -realized how much I had been living in the thought that I was somewhere -near him; that any day I might see him in the street, in the cars, -anywhere. It was hard to get used to knowing that somebody coming down -at the far end of the street could not possibly be he; that no list of -names in the paper could have his name.</p> - -<p>But just as, that first morning, I knew that he wouldn't want me to give -up and cry, so now I knew that I had to go ahead anyway, and do the best -I could. It was what he would have wanted. And I had only just begun to -make myself different. I had only just shown <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>myself how much there was, -really, to be different about.</p> - -<p>It was wanting to see him so much that made me take out my book again, -after a long lapse, and read it over. The first pages were just as I -wrote them, on the wrapping-paper that came around the boys' overalls. -Then there were the sheets of manila paper that I had bought at the drug -store near the first little room that Mrs. Bingy and I took—I remember -how I had got up early and walked to the factory one morning to save the -nickel for the paper. Then a few pages that I had made at the school on -empty theme books; and some more on the Massys' guest paper, gray with -lavender lining and a Paris maker's name. Now I went on writing my book -with a typewriter that I was learning to use, since a man on Mrs. -Bingy's floor let me borrow his machine when he went out in the -mornings. My whole history was in those different kinds of paper in my -book.</p> - -<p>Those typewritten pages are of interest chiefly to myself. They are like -the thirty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> pages that I threw away because they told only about my -going from one factory to another. Only now the typewritten pages were -not about events at all, but about the things that went on in me. And -those I can sum up in a few words: For the important thing is that in -those pages I was recording my growing understanding of something which -Rose, out of her sordid living, had done so much to teach me: that my -life was not important just because it was the life of Cosma Wakely -alone, but it was important in proportion as it saw itself a part of the -life about it—the life of school, of working women and men, of all men -and women, of all beings. I began to wonder not so much how I could make -my own individual "success," whatever that means, as how I could take my -place in the task that we're all doing together—and of finding out what -that task is.</p> - -<p>That, in short, is what those years meant to me. The incidents do not so -much matter. Nobody gets this understanding in the way that any one else -gets it. It is the individual<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> quest, the individual revelation. -Experience, education, love, the mere wear and tear of living, all go -toward this understanding. Most of all, love. I think that for me the -university and the entire faculty were only auxiliary lights to the -light that shone on me, over seas and lands, from the interior of China!</p> - -<p>Of all the wonder learned by loving, no wonder is more exquisite than -the magic by which one absent becomes a living presence. This man had so -established himself before me that it seemed to me I knew his judgments. -The simplicity of this new friend of mine, the mental honesty of that -one, the accuracy of a third who made me careful of my facts—these John -Ember would approve. I always knew. The self-centering or pretense of -others; I knew how he would smile at these, shrug at them, but never -despise them, because of his tender understanding of all life. Everybody -with whom I was thrown who was less developed than I, I understood -because I had been Cossy Wakely. Every one who was more developed, I -tried passionately to understand.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> These, and books, plays, music, -"society's" attempt to amuse itself, Rose and the factory, the whole -panorama of my life passed every day before the still tribunal of this -one man, who knew nothing about them.</p> - -<p>The two years' absence of the expedition to China lengthened to three -years, and it was well toward the close of the fourth year when Mrs. -Carney told me he might be turning home. But the summer and autumn -passed, and I heard nothing more. January came, and I was within a few -months of graduation.</p> - -<p>Then something happened which abruptly tied up the present to my old -life.</p> - -<p>I came home from class one afternoon to Mrs. Bingy's flat and found on -the table a letter for me. It was from Luke, in Katytown.</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Cossy</span> [the letter said], I hate to ask you to do something, -but you're the only one. Lena's gone.... She left this letter for -me. I send it so you'll know. And she's gone. It says she's in the -city. I ain't got the money to go there with. Cossy, could you find -her? I thought maybe you could find her. She's got some folks there -and I think maybe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> she'll go there. It's an awful thing. I hate to -ask you but you are the only one please answer.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Luke.</span>"</p></blockquote> - -<p>The address which he sent me was far uptown, and it took me over to a -row of tenements near the East River. It was dark when I left the subway -station. And when I found the street at last it smelled worse than the -Katytown alleys in summer.</p> - -<p>In the doorway of what I thought was the number I was looking for, a man -and a woman were standing. I asked if this was the address I wanted, and -the woman answered that it was.</p> - -<p>"Isn't it Lena?" I said.</p> - -<p>"What do you want?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"It's Cossy," I answered.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know. What do you want?" she asked again.</p> - -<p>I told her that I would wait up-stairs for her, and then the man went -away, and she came with me. We climbed the stairs and went along a hall -to a parlor that smelled of damp upholstery. She lighted a high central -gas-jet that flared without a burner.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p><p>She had always been pretty, and she was that now, though her face had -lines made by scowling. Her neck and shoulders and breast were almost -uncovered, because her waist was so thin and so low-cut. Her little arms -were bare from above the elbow, and her little features looked still -smaller under a bright irregular turban with a feather like a long -sword.</p> - -<p>"Luke asked me to find you," I said. "He said he didn't have the money -to come himself."</p> - -<p>"Poor Luke," said Lena unexpectedly. "He's got the worst of it. But I -can't help it."</p> - -<p>"You've just come up for a little while, though, haven't you?" I asked -her. "And then you're going back?"</p> - -<p>She shrugged, and all the bones and cords of her neck and chest stood -out. The shadow of her feather kept running over her face, like a knife -blade.</p> - -<p>"What's the use of your talking like the preacher?" she said. "You got -out yourself."</p> - -<p>"Yes," I said, "but—"</p> - -<p>"You knew before and I didn't know till<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> after," she added. "That's all. -I couldn't stand it, either."</p> - -<p>I sat still, wondering what to say.</p> - -<p>"We moved in there with his mother and father," Lena said. "His father -was good to me; but he was sick and just one more to take care of. His -mother—well, I know it was hard for her, but she was bound I should do -everything her way. She was a grand good housekeeper—and I ain't. I -hate it. She got the rheumatism and sat in her chair all day and told me -how. I tell you I couldn't stand it—"</p> - -<p>Her voice got shrill, and I thought she was going to cry. But she just -threw back her head and looked at me.</p> - -<p>"And now in seven months," she said, "something else. That was the last -straw. I says now I'd never get out. I've come up here for the last good -time I may ever have. If Luke won't take me back, he needn't. I don't -care what becomes of me anyway."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lena," I said.</p> - -<p>"Don't you go giving yourself airs," she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> said. "You got away. We've -heard about your school and your smartness. But supposin' you hadn't. Do -you think you'd have stayed in Luke's mother's kitchen slavin'?"</p> - -<p>"No, Lena," I said. "I honestly don't think I would."</p> - -<p>The gas without any burner flickered over the big-figured carpets and -chairs and table cover, the mussy paper flowers and the rusty gas stove -and the crayon portraits. I almost felt as if I were there in Lena's -place.</p> - -<p>"I s'pose, though, you're goin' to tell me to go back," she said. "Well, -best spare your breath."</p> - -<p>It came to me what I had to do, just as simply as things almost always -come.</p> - -<p>"I'm not going to tell you any such thing," I said. "I wondered if you -wouldn't come down and stay with Mrs. Bingy and me while you're here. -We've got an extra cot."</p> - -<p>She tossed her head. "You're laughing at me," she said.</p> - -<p>"No," I said, "I want you. So would Mrs. Bingy."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p><p>When she understood, something seemed to go out of her. She shrank down -in the chair, and that look of hers went away from her.</p> - -<p>"I'd love to," she said. "Oh, Cossy—I thought when I got here things'd -be different. But I've been here four days, and I ain't really had any -fun here either!"</p> - -<p>I told her to get her things ready, and when she went to tell her -mother's aunt, with whom she was staying, her aunt came in and made us -both have some supper first. The table was in the kitchen, and the aunt -was cooking flap-jacks over the stove. Her husband was a tunnel man, and -so was his son. There were two girls younger than Lena; one of them was -ticket-seller in a motion-picture house, and one of them was "at home."</p> - -<p>"Don't you work?" I said to her.</p> - -<p>"Hessie's going to be married," said her mother, proud and final.</p> - -<p>"Believe me, she'd better get a job instead," said Lena—and I saw the -girl who was ticket-seller turn a puzzled face to her, but the -bride-to-be laughed. I was glad that I was going to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> take Lena away from -them. Whatever is to be learned by women, it seems to me that they -should never have for teacher a bitter woman, however wise.</p> - -<p>Lena had felt a good deal—I could see that; but she knew nothing. To -her, her own case was just one isolated case, and due to her bad luck. -She had no idea that she was working at a problem, any more than Mrs. -Bingy and I had when we left Katytown. Or any more than her mother's -aunt, who was thick and flabby and bothered about too much saleratus in -the flap-jacks. I thought of the difference between Lena and Rose. -They'd got something so different out of a hard life. Rose felt hers for -all women; but Lena felt hers for just Lena.</p> - -<p>When we got back to the flat, Mrs. Bingy had the gas log burning and she -was working at her lace. The child was awake, and playing about. Lena -stood in the passage door and looked. We had some plain dark rugs and a -few pieces of willow furniture that we had bought on the instalment -plan. I had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> made some flowered paper shades for the lights. Mrs. Carney -had given me one lovely colored print. I had my school-books and some -library books on the shelves. And we had a red couch cover Mrs. Bingy -had bought—"shut her eyes and bought," she said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, ain't it nice?" Lena said.</p> - -<p>"Luck sakes," said Mrs. Bingy. "If it ain't Lena-Curtsey-that-was. Well, -if here ain't the whole neighborhood!"</p> - -<p>I followed Lena into my little bedroom that night.</p> - -<p>"Lena," I said, "does Luke know what you told me?"</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't you better write and tell him?" I asked. "And tell him just -why you want to get away for a while?"</p> - -<p>"He'd think I was crazy," she answered. "They'd talk it over. His ma'd -say I was a wicked woman—and I donno but what I am. But I will be crazy -if I stay stuck there in that kitchen all those months—"</p> - -<p>She began to cry. I understood that the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> best thing to do was to let her -stay here quietly with us and give her whatever little pleasure we -could.</p> - -<p>She let me write to Luke and tell him that she was going to visit us for -a while. I told her I would take her to a school play the next night, -and we looked over her things to decide what she was to wear.</p> - -<p>"Lord, Cossy," she said, "it's been months since I've went to bed -thinking I was going to have any fun the next day."</p> - -<p>Afterward I found Mrs. Bingy sitting with her head on her hand.</p> - -<p>"I wonder," she said, "if I done it."</p> - -<p>"What, Mrs. Bingy?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"When any woman in Katytown leaves her husband, I'll always think that -if I hadn't gone, maybe——"</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Bingy," I said, "suppose you had stayed. Either he'd have murdered -you and the baby, too, maybe, or else you might have had another child -or two—with a drunken brute for a father. If you've helped anybody like -you to get away, you be glad!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p><p>"I don't know what to make of you sometimes, Cossy," she said. -"Sometimes what you say sounds so nice I bet it's wicked."</p> - -<p>She took the child, gathered him up with a long sweep of her arm and -tossed him, with one arm, on her shoulder. She was huge and brown, as -she used to be; but now her life had rounded out her gauntness, and she -looked fed and rested and peaceful. To see her in the little -sitting-room of the flat, busy and happy and cheerful, was like seeing -her soul with another body, or her body with another soul, or both. I -never got over the wonder of it.</p> - -<p>The school play gave Lena nothing of what she pathetically called "fun." -And when she went with me to the factory dances, she turned up her nose -at the men, not one of whom was, she said, a "dresser." She told me that -she hated to be with anybody who knew more than she did. In a fortnight -she went back to Luke's aunt to stay, I suspected, as long as her small -money held out at the motion-picture shows.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> - -<p>It was just before Lena left us that Mrs. Carney telephoned one day for -me to come to her house to dinner on the following night. "He's back!" I -said to myself as I hung up the receiver; for by now Mrs. Carney had -guessed something of John Ember's place in my life, though we had never -spoken of it. But he was not back, now, any more than he had been all -the other times that I had leaped at the hope, in these three years. It -was some one else who had come back.</p> - -<p>Mr. Arthur Carney was in Europe that year, and I went there that night -without thinking that there was such a person as he in the world, so -long had I forgotten his existence. But Mrs. Carney told me that she had -had, the day before, a telegram to say that he had landed in New York -and would be at home by the end of the week. While we were waiting for -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>dinner to be announced, he unexpectedly appeared in her drawing-room. -And he said to her, before all those people:</p> - -<p>"You see, my dear, I've come to surprise you. I've come to see how well -you amuse yourself while I am away."</p> - -<p>He said that he would go in to dinner with us just as he was. He was -welcomed by everybody, and, of course, Mrs. Carney introduced him to me. -She could have had no better answer to what he had just said to her.</p> - -<p>"May I present my husband, Miss Wakely?" she said. "Arthur, she was once -at the factory. You may remember——"</p> - -<p>He had grown stouter, and his face was pink, and his head was pink -through his light hair. He carried a glass and stared at me through it, -and then he dropped his glass and said:</p> - -<p>"My word, you know. Then we've met before, we two."</p> - -<p>"I've never had the pleasure of really meeting you, Mr. Carney," I said.</p> - -<p>"You parted from me anyway. I <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>remember that," he said. And presently he -came back to where I was. "Here's my partner, please, madame," he said -to Mrs. Carney.</p> - -<p>So I sat beside him. Of course I wasn't afraid of him any more and I -wasn't really annoyed by him. I could just study him now. And I thought: -"If only every girl whom a man follows, as you followed me, could just -study him—like a specimen."</p> - -<p>"That was a devilish clever trick you played on me, you know," he said, -when we were seated. "How'd you come to think of it?"</p> - -<p>I said: "That was easy. I could think of it again."</p> - -<p>"You could, could you?" said he. "Well, what I want to know is what -you're doing here?"</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Carney must tell you that," I reminded him.</p> - -<p>He stared at me. "You're a cool one," he said. "Come, aren't you going -to tell me something about yourself? Why, I must be just about the first -friend you had in this little old town."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p><p>I had been wondering if I dare say some of all that was in my mind, and -I concluded that I did dare—rather than hear all that was in his. So I -said:</p> - -<p>"Mr. Carney, you have been asking me some questions. Now I wonder if I -may ask you some?"</p> - -<p>"Sure," he said. "Come ahead. I'd be flattered to get even that much -interest out of you."</p> - -<p>"It's something I've thought a good deal about," I told him, "and hardly -anybody can ever have asked about it, first hand. But you must know, and -you could tell me."</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you anything you want to know," he said. "Even how much I -still think of you."</p> - -<p>It was hard to keep my temper, but I did, because I really wanted to -know. Every woman must want to know, who's been through it.</p> - -<p>"I wish you'd tell me," I said, "just how a man figures everything out -for himself, when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> he begins to hunt down a girl—as you hunted me?"</p> - -<p>He stared again, and then he burst out laughing.</p> - -<p>"Bless you," he said, "he doesn't figure. He just feels."</p> - -<p>"But now, think," I urged. "After all, you have brains—"</p> - -<p>"Many, many thanks, little one," he said.</p> - -<p>"—and sometimes you must use them. In those days, didn't you honestly -care what became of me? Didn't you think about that at all?"</p> - -<p>"You can bet I did," he said. "Didn't I make it fairly clear what I -wanted to become of you?"</p> - -<p>I wondered whether I could go on. But I felt as if I must—because here -was something that is one of the big puzzles of the world.</p> - -<p>"But after?" I said. "After?"</p> - -<p>He shrugged.</p> - -<p>"I wasn't borrowing trouble, you understand?" he said.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p><p>"No," I told him. "No. You were just piling it up for me—that was all. -Now see here: In these five years I've had school as I wanted to have -then. I know more. I'm better worth while. I'm better able to take my -place among human beings. I've begun to grow—as people were meant to -grow. Truly—were you willing to take away from me every chance of -that—and perhaps to see me thrown on the scrap-heap—just to get what -you wanted?"</p> - -<p>He looked at me, and then around his table, where his wife's twenty -guests were sitting—well-bred, charming folk, all of them.</p> - -<p>"My God," he said, "what a funny dinner-table conversation."</p> - -<p>"Isn't it?" I agreed. "These things are usually just done—they aren't -very often said. But I wish that you could tell me. I should think you'd -be interested yourself. Don't you see that we've got a quite unusual -chance to run this thing down?"</p> - -<p>For the first time I saw in his eyes a look of real intelligence—the -sort of intelligence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> that he must have used with other men, in -business, in politics, in general talk. For the first time he seemed to -me not just a male, but a human being.</p> - -<p>"Seriously," he said gravely, "I don't suppose that one man in ten -thousand ever thinks of what is going to become of the woman. Of course -there are the rotters who don't care. Most of them just don't think. I -didn't think."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad to believe," I said, "that you didn't think. I've wondered -about it. But will you tell me one thing more: If men don't think, as -you say, why is it that they are so much more likely to hunt down -'unprotected' women, working women, women alone in a city—than those -who have families and friends?"</p> - -<p>There was something terrible in the question, and in the way that he -answered it. He served himself to a delicious ragout that was passed to -him, he sipped and savored the wine in his glass, and then he turned -back to me:</p> - -<p>"They are easier," he said simply, "because<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> so many of them don't get -paid enough to live on. They're glad to help out."</p> - -<p>"And yet," I said, "and yet, Mr. Carney, you own a factory where three -hundred and fifty of these girls don't get paid enough."</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, murder!" he said. "Now you're getting on to something else -entirely. We can't do anything to wages. They're fixed altogether by -supply and demand—supply and demand. You simply take these things as -you find them—that's all."</p> - -<p>"You took me to that factory," I reminded him.</p> - -<p>"Well," he said, "you were looking for a job, weren't you? Was that -three dollars per better than nothing—or wasn't it?"</p> - -<p>I kept still. Something was the matter, we seemed to go in a circle. -Finally I said:</p> - -<p>"Anyway, Mr. Carney, I thank you for answering me. That was a good deal -to do."</p> - -<p>He sat turning his wine-glass, one hand over his mouth.</p> - -<p>"You do make me seem a blackguard," he said, "and yet—on my honor—if -you think I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> have any—I didn't think I was. I didn't mean anybody any -harm. Damn it all, I was just trying to find a little fun."</p> - -<p>He looked at me. And all at once, I knew how he must have looked when he -was a little boy. I could see the little boy's round eyes and full red -cheeks, and the way he must have answered when he'd done something -wrong. And it didn't seem to me that he'd ever grown any older. I -understood him. I understood most men of his type. And I believed him. -He was just blundering along in the world's horrible, mistaken idea of -fun—that means death to the other one.</p> - -<p>Before I knew it, my eyes brimmed full of tears. He saw that, and sat -staring at me.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> - -<p>I had gone wondering how I should see him at last, and what we should -say to each other. It never once occurred to me that we might not meet -again, or that when we did meet it would mean merely the casual renewing -of a casual occasion. As for me everything moved from the time when I -had met John Ember, so everything moved toward the time when I should -see him again. I pictured meeting him on the street, at Mrs. Carney's -house, about the university. I pictured him walking into a class room to -give one of the afternoon lectures—older, his hair a little grayed, and -yet so wonderfully the same as when he had spoken to me there on the -country road. And I could imagine that if I said my name to him he would -have to stop and hunt through his mind for any remembrance of that -breakfast and that walk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> which were, so far, the principal things that -had ever happened to me.</p> - -<p>Then I used to dream that he did remember.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Ember, I'm Cosma Wakely. You won't remember—but I just wanted to -say 'thank you' for what you did."</p> - -<p>And: "Remember. My dear child, I've been looking for you ever since. Sit -down—I want to talk with you."</p> - -<p>Once I saw his picture in a magazine, looking so grave and serious, and -I liked to know that there was that Katytown morning, and that I knew -him in a way that none of the rest did; that I'd been with him on that -lonely, early road and had heard him talk to me—no matter how stupid -I'd acted—and that we'd sat together over breakfast in the yard of the -Dew Drop Inn. Just in that I had one of the joys of a woman who loves a -great man, and understands him as all those who sit and look up to him -can never understand him. I felt as if something of me belonged to John -Ember.</p> - -<p>And when I did see him, it was as if he had never been away.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p><p>I had been twice to see Lena, and found her in the stale-smelling rooms -of her aunt, each time at work upon some tawdry finery of her own. One -day I thought about begging her to go with me to a gallery that I had -found where hung a picture which it seemed to me must speak to her.</p> - -<p>She went readily enough—she was always eager to go somewhere in a -pathetic hope that some new excitement, adventure, would await her. We -walked to the gallery, through the gay absorbed crowd on the avenue; and -as we moved among them, the chattering gaiety with which we had left her -aunt's, fell from her, the lines deepened about her mouth, and finally -she fell silent.</p> - -<p>Almost no one was in the little gallery. I led her to the central bench, -and we sat down facing the picture that I had brought her to see: A -woman in a muslin gown holding a child. I guessed how the Madonnas, in -their exquisite absorption and in radiance and in crimson and blue would -have for her little to say, as a woman to a woman. But this girl,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> in -the simple line and tone of every day, with a baby in her arms, seemed -to me to hold a great fact, and to offer it.</p> - -<p>Lena looked at her, and her face did not change. I waited, without -saying anything, feeling certain that whatever I said she was in a mood -to contradict. So she spoke first.</p> - -<p>"It looks grand," she said, "till you think of the work of washin' and -ironin' the baby's clothes. And her own. You can bet I shan't keep it in -white."</p> - -<p>"Look at the baby's hand," I said, "around her one finger."</p> - -<p>It was at that moment that the owner of the little gallery came in, with -a possible patron. They stood near us, looking at a landscape by the -artist of the Madonna.</p> - -<p>" ... a wise restraint," he was saying. "Restraint is easy enough—it is -like closing one's mouth all the time. The thing is to close it wisely! -It is not so much the things that he elects not to include in the -composition as it is his particular fashion of omission—without -self-consciousness, with no pride of choice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> I should say that of all -the young artists now working in America, he comes the closest to giving -place to the modern movements, seeing them as contributions but not -often as ultimates—"</p> - -<p>"I'm goin'," said Lena.</p> - -<p>I followed her. On the sidewalk, she tossed her head and laughed -unpleasantly.</p> - -<p>"No such talk as that guy was giving in mine," she said. "He feels -smart—that's what ails him. Cossy, I hate folks like that. I hate 'em -when they pretend to know so much...."</p> - -<p>"What if they do know, Lena?" I said.</p> - -<p>"Then I don't want to be with 'em," she answered. "That's easy, ain't -it? Sometimes I almost hate you. Ain't they some store where they's a -basket of trimmin' remnants we could look at?"</p> - -<p>I took her to a shop, and she walked among the shining stuffs, -forgetting me. She loved the gowns on the models. She felt contempt for -no one who was dressed more beautifully than she—only for those who -"knew more"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> than she. I thought how surely beauty and not knowledge is -the primal teacher, universally welcomed. Beauty is power.</p> - -<p>But the remnant basket did not please her, and we stepped into the -street to seek another shop. And standing beside a motor door, close to -the way we passed, were Mrs. Carney and John Ember.</p> - -<p>It was only for a moment, then the door shut upon them and they drove -away. But I had seen him as I had dreamed him, a little older, but -always in that brown, incomparable youth. He was bending his head to -listen—that was the way I always thought of him. He was giving some -unsmiling assent. He was here, and no longer across the world. I stood -still, staring after the car.</p> - -<p>"Gee, that was a swell blue coat," said Lena. "I don't blame you for -standing stock-still. I bet I could copy that.... Come on!"</p> - -<p>I went with her. But I hardly heard her stream of comment and bitter -chatter. And yet it was not all of John Ember that I was thinking, nor -was I filled only with my singing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> consciousness that he was back. I was -seeing again Mrs. Carney's face as she had turned to speak to him; -glowing, relaxed, open like a flower.</p> - -<p>Presently I was aware that Lena was not beside me. I looked and she was -before the window of a shop. I crossed to her, and then I saw what she -was looking at—no array of cheap blouses, price-marked, or of flaming -plumes. She stood before the window of a children's outfitting shop.</p> - -<p>I said nothing, nor did she. She looked, and I waited. The white things -were exquisite and, I felt, remote. They were so dainty that I feared -they would alienate her, because they were so much beyond her. But to my -surprise, she turned to me:</p> - -<p>"Could—could we go in here," she asked, "even if we didn't buy -anything?"</p> - -<p>We went in. Within the atmosphere was still more compact of delicate -fabric and fashioning and color. An assured young woman came forward.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p><p>"Leave us look at some of your baby things," said Lena.</p> - -<p>We looked. I shall never forget Lena's hands, ungloved, covered with -rings and cheap blue and red stones, as those hands moved in and about -the heaped-up fineness of the little garments. Of some of the things she -did not know the names. The pink and blue crocheted sacks and socks -brought her back to them again and again.</p> - -<p>"I used to could crochet," she said at length.</p> - -<p>But it was before a small white under-skirt that she made her real way -of contact. She fingered the white simple trimming, and her look flew to -mine.</p> - -<p>"My God," she said, "that's 'three-and-five.' I can do that like -lightning."</p> - -<p>"Get some thread," I said, "and make some...."</p> - -<p>She had made nothing yet. She had told me that. Now she lifted and -touched for a moment among the heaped-up things that they brought her.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p><p>"I've got five dollars," she said, "that I was savin' to get me a swell -hat, when I go back. I might—"</p> - -<p>I said nothing. It seemed to me that a great thing was happening and -that Lena must do it alone. After a little I priced the dimities and -muslins in her hearing.</p> - -<p>"If you want to, Lena," I said, "you could come back to the flat and -Mrs. Bingy would help you to make the things...."</p> - -<p>"Would five dollars get the cloth for two dresses and two skirts and -some crochet wool? Some pink wool?" asked Lena.</p> - -<p>So she bought these things, with the five dollars that hung about her -neck in a little bag. As we went out the door, she saw a bassinet, all -fine whiteness and flowered blue and lace edging.</p> - -<p>"It's a clothes basket!" she cried excitedly. "Don't you see it is? -What's the matter with me making one like that?" She turned to me, -laughing as boisterously as I had heard her laugh in the Katytown -post-office when more traveling men than usual were sitting outside<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> the -door of the Katytown Commercial House. "Land," she said, "when I get -back home, I bet I'll have everything but the baby!"</p> - -<p>I sat beside her in the street-car, and she tried to make a hole in the -paper of her parcel to see again the color of the wool she had bought -for the little sack. There was thread, too, for the "three-and-five." -Lena's eyes were bright and eager. She said little on the way home, and -she made no objection to going with me to the flat. When we unrolled the -parcel on Mrs. Bingy's dining-room table, and I saw Lena stooping and -planning, I thought of the picture that we had left in the little -gallery. There was a look in Lena's eyes that I had never seen there -before. I heard Mrs. Bingy and her chattering happily over the patterns, -and I thought that beauty has many ways of power.</p> - -<p>Then, the next day, I had a telegram from Mrs. Carney.</p> - -<p>"Come to see me to-day," she said. "Important."</p> - -<p>I hurried to her, dreaming, as I had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> dreamed all night, of whom I might -find with her. But she was alone, and in some happy excitement that was -beautifully becoming to her, who was usually so grave and absent.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," she said, "what would you say to leaving the university before -you have your degree?"</p> - -<p>I knew that very well. "I would say," I said, "that I don't care two -cents about the degree, if I can get the right position without it."</p> - -<p>"I hoped you would say that!" she cried. "Then listen: John Ember has -asked me to find a secretary for him. Will you go and try for the place?"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> - -<p>His library had not many books, not many pictures, and no curtains at -all. The nine o'clock sun fell across the dull rugs, and some blue and -green jars on a shelf shone out as if they were saying something. I -waited for him at the hour of the appointment that Mrs. Carney had made -for me. And for me some of the magic and the terror of the time were in -that she had not told him who I was. When his little Japanese had gone -to call him, I sat there in a happiness which made me over, which made -the whole world seem like another place. I heard his step in the -passage, and I wondered if I was going to be able to speak at all. I -rather thought not, until the very moment that I tried.</p> - -<p>He came toward me, bowing slightly, and motioning me to my chair. I -looked at him, with a leaping expectation in my heart, and, I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> am -afraid, in my eyes. His own eyes met mine levelly, courteously, and -without a sign of recognition.</p> - -<p>"Now, let us see," he said briskly, and sat down before me. "About how -much experience have you had?"</p> - -<p>"I have never been anybody's secretary, if that is what you mean," I -said, when I could.</p> - -<p>"It is not in the least what I mean," he returned. "If you happen not to -have been anybody's secretary, I am glad of it. I meant, 'What can you -do?'"</p> - -<p>"I can typewrite," I managed to tell him. "And almost always I can -spell."</p> - -<p>"That's good," he said, "though far from essential. Now what else?"</p> - -<p>I thought for a moment. "I can keep still," I said. "I don't believe -there's anything else I can do."</p> - -<p>"That makes an admirable beginning," he observed gravely. "Do—do you -take down all instructions? In notes?"</p> - -<p>"I can, if you like," I said. "But I can never read my own notes."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p><p>"You don't do shorthand?" he cried.</p> - -<p>For the first time, as I shook my head, it occurred to me that I might -not meet his requirements.</p> - -<p>"Well, now," he was saying, "that is good news. I was afraid you might -come with a ruled note-book," he explained. "The flap kind."</p> - -<p>"No," I said, "I begin at both ends of those. And then I never can find -the notes."</p> - -<p>"Precisely," he said. "Now about your head. Is it likely to ache every -few minutes?"</p> - -<p>"Only when I read the map in an automobile," I answered.</p> - -<p>"Fortunately," he assured me, "there will be little of that in my -requirements. Now the honest truth: Can you work hard? Can you work like -a demon if you have to?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Unless it has figures in it," I said.</p> - -<p>"It hasn't," he said. "Or at least, when it has, I shall have to do -those myself, for my sins. But I warn you, there's some pretty stiff -work ahead. It's a labor survey of China. And I want somebody to do ten -hours a day<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> most of the time, showing how like dogs the Chinese workmen -are treated."</p> - -<p>Ten hours a day with him! I sat silent, trying to take in the magnitude -of my joy.</p> - -<p>"It's too much?" he hazarded.</p> - -<p>"Oh!" I cried. "No. Why no!" He looked up inquiringly. "See the women in -this town," I added, "who work ten hours a day and more."</p> - -<p>"We're going to get along extremely well, then," he said, "if you don't -mind my damned irritability—I beg your pardon. I'm shockingly -irritable—but," he paused, leaning forward, still grave, "let me tell -you, confidentially, now, that I always know it, underneath. You can't -mind what I say too awfully, you know, if I put you in possession of -that fact to start with. Can you?"</p> - -<p>"I shan't mind," I said.</p> - -<p>"Well, you will, you know," he warned me, "but that at least ought to -help. I suppose it wouldn't be possible for you to go to work now? This -moment?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p><p>"Yes, it would," I said, trying hard not to say it too joyfully.</p> - -<p>"What?" he exclaimed. "Really? Without breaking an engagement? Or -telephoning anybody? This is wonderful. Oh, by the way. Let me see your -hand when you write."</p> - -<p>He brought me a pad and pen and ink.</p> - -<p>"Write anything," he said. "Write."</p> - -<p>I wrote. He watched me absorbedly and drew a sigh that might have been -relief.</p> - -<p>"That's all right, too," he told me. "I had a young woman here helping -me once who wrapped her fingers round the pen when she wrote, in a -fashion that drove me mad. I used to go out and dig in the garden till -my secretary had gone home, and then come in and get down to work -myself."</p> - -<p>I put away my hat, and merely to shut the door on the closet that held -umbrellas and raincoats was an intimacy that gave me joy. I had starved -for him, thirsted for him, and two days ago had not known that he was -not in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> China still; yet here was this magic, as life knows so well to -manufacture magic.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I don't remember," he said, "what Mrs. Carney told me your -name is?"</p> - -<p>While we talked, it had been gradually fastening itself in my mind that -it would have been remarkable if he had recognized me. A country girl, -in a starched white dress, with her hair about her face, acting like a -common creature on the Katytown road, and later, to his understanding -working in a New York factory, could have no connection with a woman of -twenty-six, in well-fitting clothes, who came to him six years after, as -his secretary. I told him my last name, and he said it over as if it had -been Smith.</p> - -<p>In a corner of the library, by the window overlooking the little garden, -he set me to sorting an incredible heap of notes, made illegibly on -paper of varying sizes, unnumbered, but every sheet scrupulously dated. -These covered two years and a half, and their arrangement was anything -but chronological.</p> - -<p>"Note-books have their uses," he admitted,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> surveying that hopeless -pile. "But not the flap kind," he added hastily.</p> - -<p>I set to work, and as I touched the papers which had been with him all -those days when I had seen the sun off for China, it seemed to me that I -must tell somebody: "It's true then! Excepting for the misery in the -world, you can be perfectly happy!" I had always doubted it. You do -doubt it, until you have a moment of perfect happiness for your own. And -this was the first one that I had ever known. He was at some proofs, and -he promptly forgot my existence. After all these years, after the few -rare glimpses of him which had been food for me and a kind of life, here -I was where by lifting my eyes I could see him, where countless times a -day I could hear him speak. Better than all this, and infinitely dearer, -I was, however humbly, to help him in his work. I, Cosma Wakely, who, on -a day, had tried to flirt with him.</p> - -<p>I went at the notes fearfully. What if I could not understand them? -There were gods, I knew, whose written word is all but <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>measureless to -man, I own that his notes were far from clear. Perhaps it was just -because I so much wanted it that I understood them. Moreover, I found, -to my intense delight, that I some way <i>felt</i> what he was writing. This -I can not explain, but every one who loves some one will know how this -is.</p> - -<p>In half an hour he wheeled suddenly in his chair at the table. I caught, -before he spoke, his look of almost boyish ruefulness.</p> - -<p>"Miss Wakely," he said, "I beg your pardon like anything. What salary do -you have?"</p> - -<p>I felt my face turn crimson. This had occurred to me no more than it had -to him.</p> - -<p>When it was settled, he rose and came toward the corner where I worked, -and stood looking down at me. For a moment I was certain that now he -knew me.</p> - -<p>"Miss Wakely," he said very gently, "may I ask you one thing more? Do -you wear black sateen aprons?"</p> - -<p>"I loathe all aprons," I said.</p> - -<p>"And paper sleeve-shields, too?" he inquired earnestly. "Held by big -rubber bands?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p><p>"Paper sleeve-shields held by big rubber bands," I said, "I loathe even -more than black sateen aprons."</p> - -<p>"Well," he said, "do you know, there was one young woman once—" and he -went back to his task obliviously.</p> - -<p>At one o'clock I found a little tea-shop in the neighborhood, where food -was scandalously high, after the manner of unassimilated tea-shops. I -remember the clean little room, with a rose on my table and shelves of -jelly over my head.</p> - -<p>"How much better that is than some books," I said to the pink waitress, -because I had to speak to somebody, so that I could smile. The world is -not yet adjusted with that simplicity which permits one to sit in public -places alone and, very happily, to smile. And this, I realized, was what -I had been doing.</p> - -<p>I was obliged to walk twice the transverse length of the blocks cut by -the little studio street, before it was time to go back. As I was -returning the second time, I came face to face with Mr. Ember carrying a -paper sack.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p><p>"Torchido," he explained, "lectures in a young ladies' seminary just at -noon. It is not convenient for me. But I mind nothing so much as the -fact that he will not let me have dried herrings. They—they offend -Torchido. They do not offend me. So I go out and buy herrings of my own -and hide them in the bookcase. But he nearly always smells them out."</p> - -<p>I wanted to say: "You can't buy anywhere such good ones as we used to -have in Katytown." Instead, I said something in disparagement of -Torchido's taste, and reflected on the immeasurable power of dried -herrings in one human being's appeal to another.</p> - -<p>I went back to work in my corner, and he ate herrings and buns, -unabashed, at his library table. When I saw Torchido coming along the -garden wall, I said: "Torchido—he's coming!" and Mr. Ember swept the -remains of his lunch into the sack and dropped it into one of the -glorious green-blue jars.</p> - -<p>Torchido came in for orders, took them, stood for a moment plainly -sniffing the air, pointedly opened a far window, and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>respectfully -retreated. Whereat the first faint smile that I had seen met my look, -when the door had closed.</p> - -<p>It was a heavenly day. It seemed to me that some heritage of my young -girlhood had, after all, not quite escaped in all that sordid time, but -had waited for me, let me catch it up and, now, enjoy it as I never -could have enjoyed it then.</p> - -<p>I walked home that night, in remembrance of that first miserable walk -away from that studio, and because I like to be happy in the exact -places where I have been miserable. I wanted to be alone for a little -while, too, to think out what had happened. And all the way home that -night, and all the evening when I did no work, the thing which kept -recurring to me was the magic of a universe in which herrings and the -absence of black sateen aprons permit immortal beings to draw a little -nearer to each other.</p> - -<p>The days were all happy. That combination of fellowship and its humor, -together with a complete impersonality which yet <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>exquisitely takes -account of all human personality and variously values it, was something -which I had never before known in any man. I had not, in fact, known -that it was in the world. It is exceedingly rare—yet. Most women die -without knowing that it does occasionally exist. But it presages the -thing which lies somewhere there, beyond the border of the present, -beside which the spectacle of romantic love <i>without it</i> will be as -absurd as chivalry itself.</p> - -<p>I used to think, in those first days, how gloriously democratic love -would make us—if we would let it. I understood history now—from the -time of the first man and woman! Not a cave man, not a shepherd on the -hills, not a knight in a tournament, but that I understood the woman who -had loved him. It was astonishing, to have, all of a sudden, not only -the Eloises and Helens clear to me—they have been clear to many—but -also every little obscure woman who has ever watched for a man to come -home. And it wasn't only that. It was that I understood so much better -the woman of now. Women in cars and in busses,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> shoppers, shop-women, -artists, waitresses, char-women, "great" ladies—none of them could -deceive me any more. No snobbery, no hauteur, no superiority, no -simplicity could ever trap me into any belief that they and I were -different. If they loved men, then I know them through and through.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Bingy," I said to her one night, "did you ever love Mr. Bingy -much?"</p> - -<p>She was re-setting the pins in her pillow and she looked over at me with -careful attention.</p> - -<p>"Well," she said, "they was a good many of us to home, you know; and I -didn't have much to do with; and I really married Keddie to get a home. -But of course, afterward I got fond of him. And then to think of us -now!"</p> - -<p>"But you really didn't love him when you married him?"</p> - -<p>"No," she said. "It's a terrible thing to own up to."</p> - -<p>And there again was the whole naked problem, as I had seen it for her, -for Lena, for my mother, for all the women of Katytown,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> for Mrs. -Carney, for Rose.... What was the matter? When love was in the world for -us all, when at some time every one of us shared it—what was the reason -that it came to this? Or—as I had seen almost as often—to the model -"happy" home, which often bred selfishness and oblivion?</p> - -<p>Yet in those days I confess that I thought far less about these things -than I did of the simple joy of being in that workroom where he was.</p> - -<p>There was a day of rain early in June—of rain so intense and compelling -that when lunchtime came I left in the midst of it, while Mr. Ember was -out of the room, so that he should not be constrained to ask me to stay. -When I came back he scolded me.</p> - -<p>"You didn't use good sense!" he said. "Why didn't you?"</p> - -<p>"I used all I had," I replied with meekness.</p> - -<p>"If that was all you had, you'd lose your job," he grumbled. "Never go -out from here again in such a rain as that. Do you hear?"</p> - -<p>Torchido not yet having returned from his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> lecture, Mr. Ember built up a -cedar fire in the fireplace and made me dry my feet.</p> - -<p>"I am going to make you a cup of tea," he said, "from some—"</p> - -<p>"Don't tell me," I said, "that it's from the same kind that the emperor -uses?"</p> - -<p>"It is not," he replied. "This is another form of the same -advertisement. This is some which was picked four hundred years ago."</p> - -<p>"Oh," I said, "I dislike tea more than I can tell you. But I should like -to drink a cup of that."</p> - -<p>The stuff was horrible. It was not strong, but it had an unnameable -puckering quality. I tasted it, and waited.</p> - -<p>"Do you like it?" he asked eagerly.</p> - -<p>"It is," I said, "the worst tea I have ever tasted in my whole life. I -feel as if I had been shirred."</p> - -<p>He burst into laughter.</p> - -<p>"So I think," he said, "but lovely ladies drink it down and pretend to -like it, just because I tell 'em what it is. I'm glad you hate it."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p><p>He held the tin over the coals.</p> - -<p>"Shall I burn it?" he asked. "To the tune of 'What horrid humbugs lovely -ladies are'?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no," I said, "give it to some old lady who will think it is just -tea."</p> - -<p>He nodded. "You have made the economically correct adjustment," he said. -"And that is a good deal of a trick."</p> - -<p>One morning when I went in, I found him sitting at his table pressing -the tips of his fingers to his closed eyes.</p> - -<p>"Good morning, Miss Wakely," he said. "These two tools of mine are -rusting out. It's a nuisance just now, with the proof coming."</p> - -<p>I said: "Couldn't I read it to you?"</p> - -<p>"Frankly, I'm afraid not;" he answered. "I belong to the half of mankind -who can not be read to. I <i>think</i> that I couldn't bear it. But you may -try."</p> - -<p>He sat in a deep chair, with his back to the light, and I before him, -with a little table for the proof. I read to him, doing my best to keep -my mind on what I was reading. His<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> bigness, his gentleness, his -abstraction, his humor were like a constant speaking presence, even when -he was silent.</p> - -<p>When I had read for ten minutes, he interrupted me.</p> - -<p>"It's wonderful," he said. "You can do it. I'm trying to get at the -reason. You don't over-emphasize. And yet your voice is so flexible that -you aren't monotonous. And you don't plunge at every sentence, and come -down hard on the first word, and taper off to nothing. If it keeps up, -this is going to make me a terrible grafter, because I can't begin to -pay you for what this will be worth to me."</p> - -<p>"I'll stay as long as I can stand it!" I told him, trying to keep the -happiness out of my eyes and my voice at the same time.</p> - -<p>In a little while, the joyous sensation of what I was doing gave way to -the interest in the reading itself. His book, I found, was a serious -study of work in its relation to human growth. From the Hebraic -conception of work as a curse to the present-day conception<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> of work as -conscious cooperation in creation, in evolution, he was coming down the -line, visiting all nations, entering all industries.</p> - -<p>It was curious that, in those first days there never once passed between -us any word of the great human problems in which we were both so -excludingly interested. I understood that doubtless he had accustomed -himself to saying very little about them, save when he knew that he -would meet understanding. I had been at work for him more than a month -before we ever talked at all, save the casual give-and-take of the day, -and in occasional interludes, like the interludes of herrings and tea.</p> - -<p>One morning we were copying some Chinese reports giving the total wages -earned by men in seventy-year periods, and some totals to indicate their -standards of living. Suddenly he said:</p> - -<p>"Considering our civilization, and our culture and -enlightenment-business, our own figures, proportionately to what we -might make them with our resources, are blacker than the ex-empire's."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p><p>"You can't tell it in totals, though," I said. "You can't indicate in -figures what is lost by low wages, any more than you can measure great -works of genius by efficiency charts."</p> - -<p>"You care about these things?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"More than anything else," I answered.</p> - -<p>After that, he talked to me sometimes about his work.</p> - -<p>"I wish," he said once, "that I knew more about the working women. I'd -like to get some of this off before a group of working women, and see -how they'd take it."</p> - -<p>"I could plan that for you," I said, "if you really mean it."</p> - -<p>He looked at me curiously. "You are a remarkable little person," he -observed. "Are there, then, things that you can't do?"</p> - -<p>I went to see Rose back in the same factory, a little more worn, a -little less hopeful, but still at her work among the girls. She welcomed -the suggestion that he come to speak. He came for the next week's -meeting.</p> - -<p>"Rose," I said, "don't say anything to Mr. Ember about me."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p><p>Before that night came round, something happened. One morning, when Mr. -Ember was going through his mail, he read one letter through twice.</p> - -<p>"This one," he said, "I must take time to answer. My lecture bureau has -gone into bankruptcy."</p> - -<p>"Well," I said, "what of that? You don't need a bureau."</p> - -<p>"It's not that," he said; "I own stock in it."</p> - -<p>At noon he went out. When he came in his face was clear, and he went -back to his proof. As I was leaving that night he spoke abruptly:</p> - -<p>"Miss Wakely," he said, "I am sorry to have to tell you something—I am -indeed. After this week I must not have you any more."</p> - -<p>For this I was utterly unprepared. I looked up at him with all the -terror and despair which filled me. "I'm not doing your work well?" I -tried to say. But—"You're doing my work," he answered, "as I never -hoped to have it done. It isn't that. It isn't only that this failure -leaves me with very little money. There's thirty <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>thousand dollars owing -to lecture and Chautauqua people, and the company hasn't a cent."</p> - -<p>"You mean," I said, "that you will help pay this thirty thousand?"</p> - -<p>"There's no one else," he answered. "I'm the only stockholder who has -anything at all. And the rest have families."</p> - -<p>"Can they compel you to do this?" I asked. It is amazing how the brute -instincts reappear in areas new; to experience. I was civilized enough -in some things, and yet instinctively I asked: "Can they compel you?"</p> - -<p>He merely stood smiling down at me. "Most of the speakers are -twenty-dollar-a-night men," he said. "They can't lose it, you see."</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," I said, and went out to the street in a kind of -glory. So he was like this!</p> - -<p>That Saturday night he handed me my pay, with, "Good-by, Miss Wakely. I -can't thank you—I really can't, you know."</p> - -<p>"Good-by, Mr. Ember," I replied cheerfully, and went.</p> - -<p>On Monday morning, when he came into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> the workroom with his letters I -sat there oiling the typewriter.</p> - -<p>He stared at me. "Miss Wakely," he said in distress, "I must have -muddled it awfully. I wasn't clear—"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I said, "you were clear. But I thought I'd enjoy keeping on with -the proof. May I have a clean cloth for the machine?"</p> - -<p>He came over to the typewriter table, and stood looking down at me. I -dared not look up, because I was worried about my eyes and what they -might have to say. Then he put out his hand, and I gave him mine.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I'll get typewriter oil on you," I said, "and it's smelly."</p> - -<p>He went on with the letters without another word. There were two great -envelopes of proof. He never could have got through them alone.</p> - -<p>The night that he spoke to the girls, I went over early and slipped in -the back seat. The hall was filled; I was glad of that. And as soon as -he began speaking I saw that he knew how to talk to them. He was just -talking to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> them about the fundamental of human growth, and how the -whole industrial struggle was nothing but the assertion of the right of -the workers to growth. He showed this struggle as but one phase of -something as wide as life.</p> - -<p>"You want a better life, don't you?" he said. "You want to enjoy more, -and know more and be more. And the people who can individually get these -things by your toil you are set against.... But what are you working -for? Food and clothes and a little fun? And your own children? I say -that those of you who are working just for these things for yourselves -are almost as bad as those who work for their own luxury.... What then? -What are we working for? Why, to make the world where <i>all of us</i> can -have a better life, and enjoy more, and know more, and be more. And -we've got to do this together. And those of us who are not trying to -raise the standard for <i>all of us</i>, whether employers or employees, are -all outlaws together."</p> - -<p>It was wonderful to see how he faced that audience of tired men and -women, and kindled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> them into human beings. It was wonderful to see the -hope and then the belief and then the courage come quickening in their -eyes, in their faces, in their applause. Afterward they went forward -like one person to meet him, to take his hand. While they were with him, -they became one person. It was almost as if they became, before his -eyes, what he was there to tell them that they could go toward.</p> - -<p>I had meant to slip out of the hall afterward. The last thing that I had -meant to do was to walk down the aisle and put out my hand. Yet when he -had finished, that was what I did.</p> - -<p>"You liked it?" he said to me.</p> - -<p>"I know it!" I told him.</p> - -<p>"Ah, that's it," he answered. "Wait," he added.</p> - -<p>So I waited until they had all spoken with him, and I wondered how any -one could watch them and not understand them. One girl, new in the -factory, came to him:</p> - -<p>"Now you have showed me where I belong in my little life," she said to -him in broken English. "Before, I felt as if I had been born<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> and then -somebody had walked away and left me there. Now I see where I am, after -all."</p> - -<p>Afterward, Rose came to me, and her face was new. "If only we could keep -them where they are now," she said. "But when they get hungry once, they -forget it all."</p> - -<p>Mr. Ember and I went down to the street. "Don't you want to walk home?" -he said to me. And when we had left the push-carts and the noise, he -turned to me in the still street:</p> - -<p>"Now tell me?" he said. "How do you know those girls so well?"</p> - -<p>I answered in genuine surprise. It seemed to me he must know.</p> - -<p>"You!" he exclaimed. "Worked in a factory? At what? And when?"</p> - -<p>I told him some of the things that I had done. He listened, and had no -idea in the world that it was he who began it all for me. He smiled with -me at my year with Miss Manners and Miss Spot. "And now what?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Now I'm secretary to you," I reminded him.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p><p>"You are not," he said, "you're an unpaid slave, being exploited for -all you're worth, and you ought to be on strike this minute. Seriously," -he added, "I can't go on this way. Don't you see that I can't allow it?"</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," I said—and indeed I had hardly heard what he had -been saying, for I was thinking: Here—walking along the street with -me—John Ember, John Ember, <i>John Ember</i>!</p> - -<p>"I'm saying," he observed, "that I discharge you from to-night."</p> - -<p>"Look here, Mr. Ember," I said, "you can't discharge me—don't you -understand! I've made up my mind to stay with you."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" he exclaimed. "So you've made up your mind?"</p> - -<p>"You mustn't be so selfish," I explained it. "You must think a little of -me. Here you are, doing a big, fine work, work that interests me more -than anything in the world. I've no other chance to help on, except -through you and Rose. Why do you want to drive me out?"</p> - -<p>"But, my child," he said, "if you don't mind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> the practicality of the -question, what are you living on?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, that!" I said. "I pay my way by making Mrs. Bingy's lace."</p> - -<p>He was silent for a moment. "You really want to?" he asked. "It isn't -pity?"</p> - -<p>"I really want to," I told him. "That's why I'm going to!"</p> - -<p>He drew a deep breath. "Then that's settled," he said; "I own up to you. -I didn't know how on earth I was going to get on without you!"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> - -<p>So there went on that relation for which this age has no name of its -own: the relation of the man, as worker, and the "out-family" woman who -is his helper. It is a new thing, for a new day. There has never been a -time when its need was not recognized; but usually, if this need was -filled at all, it had to be filled clandestinely. It used to be the -courtezans who had the brains, or, at any rate, who used them. The -"protected" woman, sunk in domestic drudgery, or in fashion and folly, -or exquisitely absorbed in the rearing of her children, could not often -share in her husband's work. And, too, in the new order, she is not -necessary to share in her husband's work, for she is to have work of her -own, sometimes like his and sometimes quite other. The function of the -"out-family" woman is clearly defined.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> And the relationship will be -nothing that the wife of the future will fear.</p> - -<p>It happened that I loved this man to whom I assumed the relationship of -helper, and that I had loved him before I began to share his work. But -it is true that, as the days went on, I began to dwell more on our work -and less on my loving him. It was not that I loved him less. As I worked -near him, and came to know him better, mind and heart, I loved him more -but there was no time to think about that! All day we worked at his -proof, his lectures, his correspondence with men and women, bent, as he -was bent, on great issues. Gradually our hours of work lengthened, began -earlier, lasted into the dusk; and I had the sense of definite service -to a great end. Most of all I had this when I answered the letters from -the workers themselves, for then it seemed to me that I went close to -the moving of great tides.</p> - -<blockquote><p>"You speak for us—you say the thing we are too dumb to say. Maybe -you are the one who is going to make people listen while we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> -breathe down here under their feet, when we can breathe at all."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Letters like this, misspelled, half in a foreign tongue, delivered by -hand or coming across the continent, were a part of the work which had -become my life. And all the breathlessness, the tremor, the delicious -currents of those first days were less real than this new relation, -deeper than anything which those first days had dreamed.</p> - -<p>One day I had forgotten to go to luncheon and, some time after two, -Torchido being absent to lecture at a young ladies' seminary, Mr. Ember -came bringing me a tray himself.</p> - -<p>"If any one was to do that you ought to have let me," I cried.</p> - -<p>"Why?" he demanded. "Now, why? You mean because you're a woman!"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I admitted, "I suppose that's what I did mean."</p> - -<p>"You ought to be ashamed of that," he said, "you cave-woman. I don't -believe you can cook, anyway."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p><p>"No," I owned, "I can't cook. And I don't want to cook."</p> - -<p>"Yet you automatically assume the rôle the moment it presents itself," -he charged. "It's always amazing. A man will pick up a woman's -handkerchief, help her up a step which she can get up as well as he, -walk on the outside of the walk to protect her from lord knows what—and -yet the minute that a dish rattles anywhere, he retires, in content and -lets her do the whole thing. We're a wondrous lot."</p> - -<p>"Give us another million years," I begged. "We're coming along."</p> - -<p>He served me, and ate something himself. And this was the first time -that we had broken bread together since that morning at the Dew Drop -Inn, when I had ordered salt pork and a piece of pie. Obviously, this -was the time to tell him.... My heart began to beat. I played with the -moment, thinking as I had thought a hundred times, how I would tell him. -Suppose I said: "Do you imagine that this is the first time we have -eaten together?" Or, "Do you remember the last time we sat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> at table?" -Or, "Have you ever wondered what became of Cosma Wakely?" I discarded -them all, and just then I heard him saying:</p> - -<p>"I like very well to see you eat, Mademoiselle Secretary. You do it with -the tips of your fingers."</p> - -<p>"Truly?" I cried. And suddenly my eyes brimmed with tears. I remembered -Cossy Wakely and her peaches.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" he asked quickly.</p> - -<p>But I only said: "Oh, I was just thinking about the 'infinite -improvability of the human race'!"</p> - -<p>Then Lena was summoned home, and she begged me to go with her.</p> - -<p>She had been for three months at Mrs. Bingy's, and a drawer of my bureau -was filled with dainty clothes that, with Mrs. Bingy's help, she had -made. We had contributed what we could, and all day long and for long -evenings, she had sat contentedly at her work. But she kept putting off -home-going, and one night she had told me the reason.</p> - -<p>"Cossy," she said, "you remember how it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> is there to Luke's folks' -house—everybody scolding and jawing. And I know I'll be just like 'em. -And it kind of seems as if, if I could stay here, where it's still and -decent and good-natured, it might make some difference—to <i>it</i>."</p> - -<p>On the morning that the message came to her, Mrs. Carney had come into -Mr. Ember's workroom. Mr. Ember was out. A small portrait exhibit was -being made at one of the galleries and, having promised, he had gone off -savagely to see it on the exhibit's last day. It was then that Mrs. -Bingy telephoned, in spasms of excitement over the telegram. Luke's -mother had fallen and hurt her hip. Lena must come home.</p> - -<p>"And, Cossy!" Mrs. Bingy shouted, "Lena thought—Lena wondered—Lena -wants you should go with her."</p> - -<p>I understood. Lena dreaded to face that household after her absence, -even though she was returning with her precious work.</p> - -<p>"I'll go," I told her; "I'll be there in an hour."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p><p>When I turned, Mrs. Carney sat leaning a little toward me, with an -expression in her face that I did not know.</p> - -<p>"Cosma," she said, "I want to tell you something—while John Ember is -away. I have wanted you to know."</p> - -<p>She had beautifully colored, and she was intensely grave.</p> - -<p>"I've taken it for granted, dear," she said, "that you must know that I -love him."</p> - -<p>I stood staring down at her. "Mr. Ember?" I said, "Why, no! No!"</p> - -<p>"Well, neither does he know," she said, "and I do not mean that he ever -shall. I should of course be ashamed of loving Mr. Carney."</p> - -<p>"Then why—why—" I began and stopped.</p> - -<p>"Why do we keep on living together?" she asked. "I haven't the courage. -And I have no property. And I have no way to earn my living—now. -Cosma—I'm caught, bound. To love John Ember has made life bearable to -me. Can you understand?"</p> - -<p>Then she kissed me. "Cosma!" she said,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> "I'm glad that you know. I've -wanted you to know. For I was afraid that you had guessed, and that it -might make a difference to you ... when he tells you."</p> - -<p>"Tells me...." I repeated. "Tells me...."</p> - -<p>The blood came beating in my face and in my throat. Seeing this, she -spoke on quietly about herself. We were sitting so when Mr. Ember came -home. And I was struck by the exquisite dignity and beauty of her manner -to him. She was like some one looking at him from some near-by plane, -knowing that she might not touch him or speak to him—not because it was -forbidden, but because they themselves were the law.</p> - -<p>Then I looked at him, and I saw that he was looking at me strangely. -There was a curious searching, meditative quality in his look which -somehow terrified me. I sprang up.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Ember," I said, "they want me to go home—there has been a telegram -to a friend. I want to go with her. She needs me...."</p> - -<p>"Where is 'home'?" he asked only.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p><p>"In the country," I answered, and had on my wraps and was at the door, -"I'll be back to-morrow," I told him.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carney had risen.</p> - -<p>"Cosma!" she said clearly. "Wait. I'll drive you home."</p> - -<p>As she spoke my name, my eyes flew to his. He was looking at me with a -kind of soft brilliance in his face, and the surprise of some certainty. -Then I knew that something had happened to make him know, and that now -he remembered.</p> - -<p>I ran out and down the walk before Mrs. Carney.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> - -<p>In the late afternoon light, Katytown looked to me beautiful: the -weather-beaten station, the empty platform, the long, dusty main street, -which informally became the country road without much change of habit. -Lena and I took what Katytown called "the rig," and drove out to Luke's -father's farm.</p> - -<p>We went into the kitchen, and Luke's mother, helpless now in her chair, -broke out at us shrilly: "Well, and about time, you good-for-nothing -high-fly!" she welcomed her daughter-in-law.</p> - -<p>Luke, eating his supper, shuffled up from the table and came toward her. -Lena amazed me. She went to him and kissed him, not with a manner of -apology, but of abstraction. Then she opened her suit-case. "Look, -Luke," she said. "Look, Mother," and hardly heard the mother's talk, -flowing on. Luke's mother watched her, lowering. Luke commented -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>awkwardly, and went off to the barn. Lena turned to the sink, filled -with unwashed dishes. The clatter of these, of faultfinding, the murk of -steam received her. But she moved among these with a new dignity. It -seemed as if life would have let Lena be so much, if only somebody had -understood in time.</p> - -<p>I left her, and walked toward my own home. But for that morning in -Twiney's pasture, six years ago, I should be back there now, in Lena's -place. For me, somebody had understood in time. Before I knew it, I had -broken into swift running along the country road. I must somehow make -everybody understand in time.</p> - -<p>The house lay quiet in the dreaming sunshine. I stepped to the open -kitchen door. They were at supper. My mother pushed back her chair and -came running to the door.</p> - -<p>"Cossy!" she cried. "Oh, Cossy! I mean Cosma."</p> - -<p>"You call me whatever you want to," I said, and kissed her.</p> - -<p>Bert and Henny came roaring out at me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> They filled the kitchen with -their bodies and voices. Father kissed me. They sat with me, while -Mother brought me some supper.</p> - -<p>"Flossy dress, sis," Henny offered easily. "Day after to-morrow," he -said, when I asked him when he was going back to his work. "We've got a -committee to meet with a committee of the traction folks. We may be hot -in it in another week." And when I asked, in what, he added: "Oh, we've -got some fines and dockings and cuts in wages to fix up, and they're -trying to make us pay more for our dynamite—you wouldn't understand."</p> - -<p>I turned and looked at my brothers. For some reason, never until that -moment had it occurred to me to count them in with those of us who were -dreaming new dreams for labor. They had been simply my brothers, ugly, -irritable, teasing. But they were laborers with whom, as strangers, I -could make common cause. Bert's great figure and dead eyes and -brutalized mouth were the figure and eyes and mouth of "The Puddler," -which I had lately gone to an art gallery to see!</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p><p>"I tell you," Father said, "there's new times coming for you fellows, -or I miss my guess. I say it every day when I read the papers."</p> - -<p>So then we talked, Father and Henry and Bert and I. For the first time -in our years together, we spoke of these matters and listened to one -another. This was talk such as would have been impossible while I stayed -there, either idle or drudging. Now I was a person, and we could -exchange impressions. It came to me what family meetings might be, if -each one were engaged in some happy, <i>chosen</i> toil, with its interests -to exchange. And warm in me came welling and throbbing an understanding -of them all, as fellow human beings, fellow workers, a relationship -which the sense of family had hitherto obstructed and bound.</p> - -<p>Presently Father and the boys went away.</p> - -<p>"Let's sit down a while and talk," Mother said to me, turning her back -on the dishes. "Shall we go in the parlor?" she asked.</p> - -<p>I voted against the parlor, and we sat in the kitchen.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span></p><p>"You've never once come up to the city, Mother," I said, "since I've -been there. Won't you come some time? We could have a drive and a play."</p> - -<p>"I've always wanted to go to the city again," she said; "I've always -wanted to be there Sunday, and go to church in a big church." She looked -out to see if Father was back. "Cossy," she said, "since you've been up -there, have you seen much of any silverware?"</p> - -<p>"Silverware?" I repeated.</p> - -<p>"Not knives and forks. I mean pitchers—and coffee pots. I s'pose the -houses you went to must use them common." And when I had answered, "I'd -like to see some, some time, before I die," she said. "And I'd like to -see a hothouse, with roses in winter."</p> - -<p>"Come on then," I said. "We'll find some, Mother."</p> - -<p>"The fare up and back is just exactly the fire-insurance money for three -years," she said. "I always think of that."</p> - -<p>Later, she went to baking pies, against the morrow. And she scolded -somewhat about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> the lamp wick that was too short, and the green wood on -the fire and I went and hugged her, merely because I seemed to know so -well what had always made her cross. For here was the same condition -which we fought for the other workers: badly remunerated toil, which was -not the real expression of the toiler; and no recreation.</p> - -<p>That night I went up to my little old room, and nothing was changed. The -little tintype of me was still stuck in the mirror. "Shall I sleep with -you?" Mother said. I lay with my hand in hers, immersed in a new -knowledge.</p> - -<p>My family was dear to me—not on the old hypocritical basis which would -have pretended to a nearness that it did not feel. But dear through the -only real basis, a basis which we had persistently baffled and inhibited -all the while that we lived together: human understanding.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> - -<p>I had planned to be back in the city by noon the next day. But there was -something that I wanted to do before I left Katytown. I wanted to go -into the little grove which, far more than the up-stairs place where I -slept, had always seemed to me to be "my room." I went there after our -early breakfast. The place was considerably thinned, but it was still -sanctuary.</p> - -<p>When I reached the fence by the road, I went over it in the old way. As -I went, I was conscious that some one, somewhere, was singing. As I -struck into the road, the low humming which I had heard was mounting. -And then it lifted suddenly into the words of its song. The man who was -singing it had just passed, and he had his face set from me. But I knew -him, as I knew his song. Then the time and the hour swept over me, and I -sang with him:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Oh, Mother dear, Jerusalem, Thy joys when shall I see...."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>He wheeled, and stood still in the road and let me come to him. And the -song broke off, and he was saying:</p> - -<p>"Cosma! Cosma Wakely! I've come to scold you!"</p> - -<p>"It was such fun!" I pleaded.</p> - -<p>"But so to take in a near-sighted old gentleman who goes out of his mind -trying to remember any of the thousand faces he sees in a year of -lectures—ah, it was too bad. Why didn't you tell me?"</p> - -<p>"I was trying to get made over," I said. "And I'm not made over yet. You -had no right to find me out! How did you find me out?"</p> - -<p>"I went to that gallery," he explained, "yesterday. And there I saw -Gerald Massy's portrait of you—and underneath he has, you know, set -'Cosma.' I have never forgotten that name—how could I? So I came -galloping home to accuse you. And there sat Mrs. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>Carney calling you -'Cosma,' before my eyes. What I can't understand," he ended savagely, -"is how I can have been so dumb. Now, tell me—tell me!"</p> - -<p>We were walking in the road, which had somehow assumed a docile and -appeased look, like something which we were stroking as it was meant to -be stroked. And I told him the rest, beginning with the hour that he had -left me in Twiney's pasture. And so we came to Twiney's pasture again.</p> - -<p>We broke through the wet sedge, and went over the fence as we had gone -that other morning. And presently we stood at the top of the hill from -which he had first shown me the whole world.</p> - -<p>Then I did my best to tell him. "Mr. Ember!" I said, "all the little bit -I've been able to make out of myself, you've made. I want to tell you -that—and I'm not telling it at all!" I cried.</p> - -<p>He stood as he had stood before, with the sky's great blue behind him. -And he said:</p> - -<p>"Then just don't bother with it. Besides,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> I've something far more -important to try to say to you—the best I know how. Cosma—will you -marry me?"</p> - -<p>In those first days, I had sometimes dreamed of his saying that—dreamed -it hopelessly; but sometimes, too, I had sunk warm in the thought of it, -as if there all thought had come home. Yet now, when he actually said -it, it came to me with a great shock. And out of the fulness of what I -suddenly read in my heart, I answered him:</p> - -<p>"Why, I can't marry you," I said. "I can't give up my work with you!"</p> - -<p>He looked down at me gravely, and he made me the answer of all men.</p> - -<p>"Give up the work! But the work together is one of the reasons why I -love you."</p> - -<p>"I can see that," I said. "And the work together is one of the reasons I -love you. But——"</p> - -<p>He put out his arms then, and took me.</p> - -<p>"You said you loved me!" he said.</p> - -<p>"I do," I said, "why of course I do——"</p> - -<p>And when he kissed me it was as if nothing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> new had happened, but only -something which was already ours.</p> - -<p>"Then what is it," he asked, "but you for me, and me for you?"</p> - -<p>And I cried, "Oh, don't you see? That after being what I've been to -you—knowing your work and your thought—I can't stop it and be just -your wife? I can't exchange this for looking after your house and -ordering your food, and sending off the laundry and keeping your clothes -mended?"</p> - -<p>"But, my child——" he began.</p> - -<p>"I know what you mean," I told him, "you think it wouldn't be that way. -You think we'd go on as we are. We wouldn't—we wouldn't. All those -things have to be done—I'd be the one to do them. It would be I who -would begin to play myself false, I who would begin to do all the little -housewifely things that other women do. It would get me—it would eat up -my time and my real work with you—I tell you it would get me in the -end! It gets every woman!"</p> - -<p>"Well," he said again, "what then?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p><p>I saw his eyes, understanding, humorous, tender. "Don't!" I cried; -"it's almost got me now—when you look at me like that."</p> - -<p>"Well," he said again, "what then?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't you see?" I cried, "I've got myself to fight. I care now for -big issues—for life and death and the workers—for the future more than -for now. We are working for them—you and I. I will not let myself care -only for getting your food and keeping the house tidy!"</p> - -<p>He looked away over the fields, and by his eyes I thought that now I had -lost him for good and all. But he only said:</p> - -<p>"To think what we have done to love—all of us. Of course I know that -the possibility is exactly what you say it is."</p> - -<p>"Not the possibility," I said, "the inevitability. Look at all of them -down there—Mother, Lena, Luke's mother, every woman in Katytown—and -most of them everywhere else. They're all prostituted to housework. -Don't let me do it! You've saved me this far—you've helped me to be the -little that I've made<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> of myself. Now help me! And," I added, "you'll -<i>have</i> to help me. For I want to do it!"</p> - -<p>He put out his hand, not like a lover, but like a comrade. And when I -gave him mine, he shook it, like a friend.</p> - -<p>"I will help you," he said. "Here's my hand on it. And it strikes me -that this is about the most poignant appeal that a woman can make to a -man. To his chivalry, if you like!"</p> - -<p>And then I said the rest: "And you must see—I'm not a mother-woman. I -should love children—to have them, to give them every free chance to -grow. But it would be the same with them: their sewing, their mending, a -good deal of the care of them—I don't know about it, and I shouldn't -like it. I shouldn't be wise about their feeding, or the care of them if -they were sick. And as for saying that the knowledge comes with the -physical birth of the child, that's sheer nonsense."</p> - -<p>"Oh, utter nonsense," he agreed. "Yes, I know you're not a -'mother-woman,' in the sense that means a nurse. Many women are not who -are afraid to acknowledge it. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> you'd give strength and health to -your children—you're fitted to bring them into the world—you'd love -them, and all children."</p> - -<p>And this was thrillingly true for me. "What I really want to do," I -said, "is to help make the world a home for all children—to make -life—and their birth—normal and healthful and right, my own children -included."</p> - -<p>"You're the new factor that we've got to deal with, Cosma," he said, -"the mother-to-the-race woman. A woman whose passion for the children of -the race isn't necessarily to be confused with a passion for keeping -their ears clean. It's something that we've all got to work out -together...." He broke off, and cried out to me, "Cosma! Are you willing -that we shall let this beat us?"</p> - -<p>I looked up at him.</p> - -<p>"It's something that has to be worked out," he repeated. "All that -you've been saying—it's got to be worked out for all women. Well, it's -not going to be done by every woman funking it, and staying unmarried."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p><p>He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes.</p> - -<p>"Are you sure," he said, "that I understand? That from the bottom of my -heart I know and feel what you've been saying? And that I'll do the best -I can to help you work it out?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I said, "I'm sure of that."</p> - -<p>I was intensely sure of him—sure that we looked at life with the same -love for the same kind of living.</p> - -<p>"Will you come?" he cried. "Will you come and face it with me? And do -your best, somehow, to work it out with me?"</p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i293.jpg" alt="Will you come and face it with me" /></div> - -<p class="bold">"Will you come and face it with me?"</p> - -<p>His arms drew me, and in them was home. And for my life I could not have -told whether I went to meet his challenge, or whether I went because we -were each other's in the ancient way.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:<br /><br /> -A Table of Contents has been added.<br /></p></div> - - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 51579-h.htm or 51579-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/1/5/7/51579">http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/5/7/51579</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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B. King - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: A Daughter of the Morning - - -Author: Zona Gale - - - -Release Date: March 28, 2016 [eBook #51579] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING*** - - -E-text prepared by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustrations. - See 51579-h.htm or 51579-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51579/51579-h/51579-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51579/51579-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/daughterofmornin00galerich - - - - - -A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING - - -[Illustration: Cosma] - - -A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING - -by - -ZONA GALE - -Author of -Friendship Village, When I Was a Little Girl -Neighborhood Stories, etc. - -Illustrated by W. B. King - - - - - - - -Indianapolis -The Bobbs-Merrill Company -Publishers - -Copyright 1917 -The Bobbs-Merrill Company - -Press of -Braunworth & Co. -Book Manufacturers -Brooklyn, N. Y. - - - - -A Daughter of the Morning - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -I found this paper on the cellar shelf. It come around the boys' new -overalls. When I was cutting it up in sheets with the butcher knife on -the kitchen table, Ma come in, and she says: - -"What you doin' _now_?" - -The way she says "now" made me feel like I've felt before--mad and ready -to fly. So I says it right out, that I'd meant to keep a secret. I says: - -"I'm makin' me a book." - -"Book!" she says. "For the receipts you know?" she says, and laughed -like she knows how. I hate cooking, and she knows it. - -I went on tying it up. - -"Be writing a book next, I s'pose," says Ma, and laughed again. - -"It ain't that kind of a book," I says. "This is just to keep track." - -"Well, you'd best be doing something useful," says Ma. "Go out and pull -up some radishes for your Pa's supper." - -I went on tying up the sheets, though, with pink string that come around -Pa's patent medicine. When it was done I run my hand over the page, and -I liked the feeling on my hand. Then I saw Ma coming up the back steps -with the radishes. I was going to say something, because I hadn't gone -to get them, but she says: - -"Nobody ever tries to save me a foot of travelin' around." - -And then I didn't care whether I said it or not. So I kept still. She -washed off the radishes, bending over the sink that's in too low. She'd -wet the front of her skirt with some suds of something she'd washed out, -and her cuffs was wet, and her hair was coming down. - -"It's rack around from morning till night," she says, "doing for folks -that don't care about anything so's they get their stomachs filled." - -"You might talk," I says, "if you was Mis' Keddie Bingy." - -"Why? Has anything more happened to her?" Ma asked. - -"Nothing new," I says. "Keddie was drinking all over the house last -night. I heard him singing and swearing--and once I heard her scream." - -"He'll kill her yet," says Ma. "And then she'll be through with it. I'm -so tired to-night I wisht I was dead. All day long I've been at -it--floors to mop, dinner to get, water to lug." - -"Quit going on about it, Ma," I says. - -"You're a pretty one to talk to me like that," says Ma. - -She set the radishes on the kitchen table and went to the back door. One -of her shoes dragged at the heel, and a piece of her skirt hung below -her dress. - -"Jim!" she shouted, "your supper's ready. Come along and eat it,"--and -stood there twisting her hair up. - -Pa come up on the porch in a minute. His feet were all mud from the -fields, and the minute he stepped on Ma's clean floor she begun on him. -He never said a word, but he tracked back and forth from the wash bench -to the water pail, making his big black footprints every step. I should -think she _would_ have been mad. But she said what she said about half a -dozen times--not mad, only just whining and complaining and like she -expected it. The trouble was, she said it so many times. - -"When you go on so, I don't care how I track up," says Pa, and dropped -down to the table. He filled up his plate and doubled down over it, and -Ma and I got ours. - -"What was you and Stacy talkin' about so long over the fence?" Ma says, -after a while. - -"It's no concern of yours," says Pa. "But I'll tell ye, just to show ye -what some women have to put up with. Keddie Bingy hit her over the head -with a dish in the night. It's laid her up, and he's down to the Dew -Drop Inn, filling himself full." - -"She's used to it by this time, I guess," Ma says. "Just as well take -it all at once as die by inches, _I_ say." - -"Trot out your pie," says Pa. - -As soon as I could after we'd done the dishes, I took my book up to the -room. Ma and I slept together. Pa had the bedroom off the dining-room. I -had the bottom bureau drawer to myself for my clothes. I put my book in -there, and I found a pencil in the machine drawer, and I put that by it. -I'd wanted to make the book for a long time, to set down thoughts in, -and keep track of the different things. But I didn't feel like making -the book any more by the time I got it all ready. I went to laying out -my underclothes in the drawer so's the lace edge would show on all of -'em that had it. - -Ma come to the side door and called me. - -"Cossy," she says, "is Luke comin' to-night?" - -"I s'pose so," I says. - -"Well, then, you go right straight over to Mis' Bingy's before he gets -here," Ma says. - -I went down the stairs--they had a blotched carpet that I hated because -it looked like raw meat and gristle. - -"Why don't you go yourself?" I says. - -"Because Mis' Bingy'll be ashamed before me," she says; "but she won't -think you know about it. Take her this." - -I took the loaf of steam brown bread. - -"If Luke comes," I says, "have him walk along after me." - -The way to Mis' Bingy's was longer to go by the road, or short through -the wood-lot. I went by the road, because I thought maybe I might meet -somebody. The worst of the farm wasn't only the work. It was never -seein' anybody. I only met a few wagons, and none of 'em stopped to say -anything. Lena Curtsy went by, dressed up in black-and-white, with a -long veil. She looks like a circus rider, not only Sundays but every -day. But Luke likes the look of her, he said so. - -"You're goin' the wrong way, Cossy!" she calls out. - -"No, I ain't, either," I says, short enough. I can't bear the sight of -her. And yet, if I have anything to brag about, it's always her I want -to brag it to. - -Just when I turned off to Bingy's, I met the boys. We never waited -supper for 'em, because sometimes they get home and sometimes they -don't. They were coming from the end of the street-car line, black from -the blast furnace. - -"Where you goin', kid?" says Bert. - -I nodded to the house. - -"Well, then, tell her she'd better watch out for Bingy," says Henny. -"He's crazy drunk down to the Dew Drop. I wouldn't stay there if I was -her." - -I ran the rest of the way to the Bingy house. I went round to the back -door. Mis' Bingy was in the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the bed. She -had the bed put up in the kitchen when the baby was born, and she'd kept -it there all the year. When I stepped on to the boards, she jumped and -screamed. - -"Here's some steam brown bread," I says. - -She set down again, trembling all over. The baby was laying over back in -the bed, and it woke up and whimpered. Mis' Bingy kind of poored it -with one hand, and with the other she pushed up the bandage around her -head. She was big and wild-looking, and her hair was always coming down -in a long, coiled-up mess on her shoulders. Her hands looked worse than -Ma's. - -"I guess I look funny, don't I?" she says, trying to smile. "I cut my -head open some--by accident." - -I hate a lie. Not because it's wicked so much as because it never fools -anybody. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "I know that Mr. Bingy threw a dish at you last -night and cut your head open, because he was drunk. Well, I just met -Henny, and he says he's down to the Inn, crazy drunk. Henny don't want -you should stay here." - -She kind of give out, as though her spine wouldn't hold up. I guess she -had the idea none of the neighbors knew. - -"Where can I go?" she says. - -There was only one place that I could think of. "Come on over with me," -I says. "Pa and the boys are there. They won't let him hurt you." - -She shook her head. "I'd have to come back some time," she says. - -"Why would you?" I asked her. - -She looked at me kind of funny. - -"He's my husband," she says--and she kind of straightened up and looked -dignified, without meaning to. I just stood and looked at her. Think of -it making her look like that to own that drunken coward for a husband! - -"What if he is?" I says. "He's a brute, and we all know it." - -She cried a little. "You hadn't ought to speak to me so," she says. "If -I go, how'll I earn my living, and the baby's?" she says. - -I hadn't thought of that. "That's so," I says. "You are tied, ain't -you?" - -I couldn't get her to come with me. She's got the bed made up in the -front room up-stairs, and she was going up there that night and lock her -door, and leave the kitchen open. - -"He may not be so bad," she says. "Maybe he'll be so drunk he'll tumble -on the bed asleep, or maybe he'll be sick. I always hope for one of -them." - -I went back through the wood-lot. It was so different out there from -home and Mis' Bingy's that it felt good. I found a place in a book once -that told about the woods. It gave me a nice feeling. I used to get it -out of the school library whenever it was in and read the place over, to -get the feeling again. Almost always it gave it to me. In the real woods -I didn't always get it. They come so close up to me that they bothered -me. I always thought I was going to get to something, and I never did. -And yet I always liked it in the wood-lot. And it was nice to be away -from home and from Mis' Bingy's. - -I forgot the whole bunch of 'em for a while. It was the night of a moon, -and you could see it in the trees, like a big fat face that was friends -with you. When a bird did just one note, it felt pleasant. After a while -I stopped still, because it seemed as if something was near to me; but I -wasn't scared, even if it was quite dark. I thought to myself that I -wisht my family and all the folks I knew was still and kept to -themselves same as the trees does, instead of rushing at you every -minute, out loud. I never knew any folks that acted different from that, -though. Luke was just like that, too. - -I was thinking of this when I see him coming to meet me, down the path. -He ain't a big man, Luke. - -"Hello, Cossy," he says. "That you?" - -"Hello, Luke," I says. I dunno why it is--with the boys at home I can -joke. But Luke, he always makes me feel just plain. I just says "Hello, -Luke," and stood still, and waited for him to come up to me. He turned -and walked along beside me. - -"I was afraid I wouldn't meet you," he says. "I was afraid I'd miss you. -My, it's a good thing to get you somewheres by yourself." - -"Why?" I says. - -"Oh, the boys are always around, or your pa, or somebody. I've got a -right to talk to you sometimes by yourself." - -"Well, go ahead, then. Talk to me." - -All of a sudden he stopped still in the path. - -"Do you mean that?" he ask. - -"Mean what?" I says. I couldn't think what he meant. - -"That I can talk to you now? My way?" - -"Oh," I says. I knew then. I guess I should have known before, if I'd -stopped to think. But someway I never could put my mind on Luke all the -time he was saying anything. - -"Cossy," he says, "I've tried to talk to you; you always got round it or -else somebody else come in. You know what I want." - -I didn't say anything. I sort of waited, not so much to see what he was -going to do as to see what I was going to do. - -Then he didn't say anything. But he put his arm around me, and put his -hand around my arm. I let him. I wasn't mad, so I didn't pretend. - -"Let's us sit down here," he says. - -We sat under a big tree and he drew my head down on his shoulder. - -"You're all kinds of a peach," he says, "that's what you are, Cossy--I -bet you've known for weeks I want you to marry me. Ain't you?" - -"Yes," I says, "I s'pose I have." - -He laughed. "You're a funny girl," he says. - -"It's silly to pretend," I says. - -"You bet," he says, "it's silly to pretend. Give me a kiss, then. Kiss -me yourself." - -I did. I had to see whether I was pretending not to want to, or whether -I really didn't want to. I see right away that I didn't want to. - -"Marry me, Cossy," he says. "Will you?" - -I was twenty years old. For a long time Ma had been asking me why I -didn't marry some nice young man. "Marry some nice young man," she says. -"You'll be happier, Cossy." Why would I be happier, I wondered. What -would make me happy? There would be, I supposed, a great deal of this -kind of thing. I thought it was honest to talk it over with Luke. - -"What for?" I says. - -"Because I love you," says Luke serious; "and I want you." - -I laughed out loud. "Them's funny reasons for a bargain," I says. - -He kind of drew off. "Oh, well," he says, "it's all I've got. If you -don't think it amounts to anything--" - -"That's why you should marry me," I says. "But I want to know why I -should marry you." - -"Don't you love me?" says Luke. - -"I donno," I told him. "I don't like to kiss you so very well." - -"Cossy, listen," Luke said. "All that'll come. Honest, it will, dear. -Just trust me, and marry me. I need you." - -"Well, but, Luke," I says, "I donno if I need you. I don't believe I -do." - -"You listen here," he says, sort of mad. "You'll have a home of your -own--" - -"Why, wouldn't I live on your folks's farm?" I says. - -"Oh, well, yes," Luke says. "But--I love you, Cossy!" he ends up. "Can't -you understand? I love you." - -He said it like the reason. I begun to think it was. - -"You've got to marry somebody," says Luke. - -I knew that well enough. Home was bad enough now, but when one of the -boys brought a wife there it would be worse. I'd have to marry somebody. - -"I'd like to get away from home," I says. "Ma and I don't get along, and -Pa's like a bear the whole time." - -"You'd ought not to say such things, Cossy," says Luke. - -"Why not?" I says. "They're true. That is about the only reason I can -think of why I should marry you. That, and because I've got to marry -somebody." - -I thought he'd be mad. Instead, he had his arms around me and was -kissing me. - -"I don't care what you marry me for," he says. "Marry me, anyhow!" - -I thought: "I s'pose I'd get used to him. I don't like the boys, either. -I can't bear Henny. Every girl seems to act as if it was all right, -after she gets away. Maybe it is." - -Two people were coming along the path. Luke and I sat still--it was so -dark nobody could notice us where we were. I heard them talking and then -I heard Ma's voice. I knew right off Henny had told her about Keddie, -and she was going to try to get Mis' Bingy to come home with us. - -" ... On my feet from morning till night," she was saying, "till it -seems as though I should drop. I don't know how I stand it." - -Pa was with her. "Stand it, stand it!" he says. "Anybody'd think you had -the pest in the house. I'm sick of hearin' you whine." - -"I know," says Ma, "nobody thinks I'm worth anything now. But after I'm -dead and gone--" - -"Oh, shut up," says Pa. And they went by us. - -I stood up, all of a sudden. Anything would be better than home. - -"Luke--" I says. - -In a few years maybe him and me would be talking the same as Ma and Pa. -Maybe he'd be hanging around the Dew Drop Inn, same as Keddie Bingy. -What of it? All women took the chance. - -"Luke," I says, "all right." - -"Do you mean you will?" says Luke. I liked him the best I'd ever liked -him, the way he says that. - -"I said 'all right,'" I says. "You be a good husband to me and I'll be a -good wife to you." - -Luke kind of scared me, he was so glad. - -On the way home he didn't talk much. As soon as we got to our house I -made him go. I'd begun to feel the tired way I do every time I'm with -him--as if I'd ironed or done up fruit. - -Ma and Pa hadn't come back yet. I went up to Ma's and my room and lit -the lamp. It was on a bracket, and stuck up behind it was a picture of -me when I was a baby. I just stood and stared at it. I hadn't thought of -it before--but what if Luke and I should have one? - -"No, sir! No, sir! No, sir!" I says, all the while I put myself to bed. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Toward morning I heard somebody scream. I was dreaming that I was with -Luke in the grove, and that he touched my hand, and that it was me that -screamed. I heard it again and again, with another noise. Then I woke -up. It wasn't me. It was somebody else. - -I sat up in bed and shook Ma. She snores, and I couldn't hardly wake -her. By the time she sat up I heard Pa move. When we got to the stairs I -heard him at the back door. - -"What's wanted?" I heard him say. - -"Quick, quick! Lemme in! Lemme in!" I heard from outside. I knew it was -Mis' Bingy. We got down-stairs just as Pa opened the door, and she come -in. Everything about her was blowing--her long hair and her outing -nightgown and the baby's shawl. She could hardly breathe, and she leaned -against the door and tried to lock it. I went and locked it for her. -She sat down, and the baby was awake and crying, so she jounced it up -and down, without knowing she was doing it, while she told what was the -matter. She twisted up her hair, and I didn't think she knew she done -that, either. She had on a blue calico waist to a work dress, over her -nightgown, and her bare feet were in shoes, with the laces dangling. Ma -took one look at her, and went and put on the teakettle. She said -afterward she never knew she done that, either. - -Mis' Bingy told us what happened. She had been laying awake up-stairs -when he come home. He called her, and she didn't answer. Then he brought -a flatiron and beat at the door. Then he yelled that he'd bring the ax. -When he went for it, she slipped out of her bedroom and locked the door, -and hid in the closet under the stairs till she heard him run up 'em. -Then she started. - -"He'll kill me," she says. "He said he'd kill me. I've never known him -like this before." - -Pa come back from his room, part dressed. - -"I'll go and get the constable," he says. - -"Oh," says Mis' Bingy, "don't arrest him! Don't do that!" - -"Lookin' for to be killed?" says Pa. "And us, too, for a-harborin' you -here?" - -She fell to crying then, and the baby cried. Mis' Bingy said things to -herself that we couldn't understand. Ma come and brought her a cup of -hot water with the tea that was left in the teapot poured in it. Ma had -a calico skirt around her shoulders, and she was in her bare feet. - -"He'll kill _you_," Ma says to Pa, "on your way to the constable. I -wouldn't go past that house for anything, to-night." - -I remember how anxious she looked at him. She was anxious, like Mis' -Bingy'd been when she said not to arrest Keddie. - -Pa muttered, but he didn't go out. In a little while, Ma said best get -some rest, so we went up to the room again, and took Mis' Bingy. Her and -Ma laid down on the bed, and I got the canvas cot that was folded up in -there. My feet stuck out, and I couldn't go to sleep. But the funny -thing to me was that both Ma and Mis' Bingy went to sleep in a little -while. - -I laid there, waiting for it to get light. The window was a little bit -gray, and off in the wood-lot I could hear a bird wake up and go to -sleep again. I liked it. Early in the morning always seemed to me like -some other time. Things acted as if they was something else. Even the -bureau looked different.... Pretty soon the sky changed, and the dark -was thin enough so I could see Ma and Mis' Bingy. Ma's light-colored -hair had got all around her face. I thought how young she looked asleep. -She looked so little and soft. She looked as if she'd be nice. I guess -she would have been if she hadn't had so much to do. I never remembered -her when she didn't have too much to do, except once when she broke her -arm; and her arm hurt her so that she was cross anyway. Once, when the -boys bought her a plaid silk, she was nice for two days; but then -wash-day come and spoiled it again, and she couldn't get back. - -Ma never had much. I don't believe any of us know her like she'd be if -she had things to do with, and didn't have to work so hard, and Pa and -the boys wasn't all the time picking on her. They all say mean things. I -do, too, of course. I always dread our meals. We don't scrap over -anything particular, but everything that comes up, somebody's always got -some lip to answer back. And Ma's easy teased and always looking for -slaps. That's me, too; I'm easy teased, though I don't look for it. -Laying there asleep, Ma seemed like somebody I didn't know, and I felt -sorry for her. She was having a rotten life. - -And Mis' Bingy. The bandage was off her head, and I saw the big red -mark. She was awful thin and blue-looking, with cords in her neck. She -was young, not more than thirty. Ma was old; Ma was forty, and, awake, -she looked it. I could see Mis' Bingy's bare arm, and it was strong as -an ox. It laid around the baby, that was sleeping on her chest. I liked -to look at it. But I thought about her life, too, and I wondered how -either Ma or her kept going at all. And what made them willing to. -Neither of 'em was having a real life. Look what love had brought them -to.... - -_And there was me, starting in the same way, with Luke._ - -It was broad daylight by then, so I could see around the room. There -wasn't a carpet, and the plaster was cracked. So was the pitcher, that -was just for show, anyhow, because we washed in the kitchen. I'd tried -to fill it for a while, but Ma said it was putting on. In a little bit -we would all be sprucing up in the kitchen, with Ma trying to get -breakfast and everybody yipping out at everybody else. - -_And I'd just fixed it so's that all my life would be the same thing as -their lives._ - -I slipped out of bed and began to dress. It wasn't Sunday, but I opened -the drawer where my underclothes were, and took out them that had lace -edging. I put on my best shoes and my white stockings. Then I went out -in the hall closet and got down my new muslin that I'd worn only once -that summer, and I took it over my arm and went down in the kitchen. -When I was all ready I went through the door that opened stillest, and -outdoors. - -Out there was as different as if it didn't belong. You thought of the -fresh smell of it before you thought of anything else. Nothing about it -had been used. And the thin sunshine come right at you, slanting. Over -the porch the morning-glories were all out. I pulled off a whole great -vine of 'em and put it around my neck. Then I ran. I wasn't going to go -anywheres or do anything. But I was clean and dressed up, and outdoors -was just as good as anybody else has. - -I went down the road toward the sun. It seemed as if I must be going -toward something else, better than all I knew. I felt as if I was a -person, living like persons live. I wondered why I hadn't done this -every morning. I wondered why everybody didn't do it. I kind of wanted -to be doing it together with somebody. Everybody I knew done things so -separate. I wisht everybody was with me. - -I wanted to sing. So I did--the first thing that come into my head. I -put my head back, so's I could see the two rows of the trees ahead, -almost meeting, and the thick blue between them. And then I sung the -first thing that come into my head, and I sung it to the top of my -voice: - - - "O Mother dear, Jerusalem, - When shall I come to Thee? - When shall my sorrows have an end? - Thy joys when shall I see? - O happy harbor of God's saints! - O sweet and pleasant soil! - In thee no sorrow can be found, - Nor grief nor care nor toil." - - -And when I got to the end of the verse somebody said: - -"I don't believe you can possibly mind if I thank you for that?" - -The man must have been sitting by the road, because he was right there -beside me, standing still, with his hat in his hand. - -I says, "I can't sing. I just done that for fun." - -"That's what was so delightful," he says. And then he says, "Are you -going to the village? May I walk along with you?" - -"No, I ain't going to town," I says. "I ain't going anywheres much. But -you can walk where you want to. The road's free." - -He walked side of me. I looked at him. He was good-looking. He was so -clean--that was the first thing I noticed about him. Clean, and sort of -brown and pink, with nothing more on his face than was on mine, and yet -he looked manly. He was big. He had a wide way with his shoulders, and -he held his head nice. I liked to look at him, so I did look. - -And all at once I says to myself, What did I care so I got some fun out -of it. Other girls was always doing this. Lena Curtsy would have talked -with him in a minute. Maybe I could get him to ask me to go to a show. I -couldn't go, but I thought I'd like to make him ask me. - -"Was you lonesome?" I ask', looking at him. - -He didn't say anything. He just looked at me, smiling a little. I -thought I'd better say a little more. I wanted him to know I wasn't a -stick, but that I was in for fun, like a city girl. - -"You don't look like a chap that'd be lonesome very long," I says. "Not -if you can get acquainted _this_ easy." - -He kept looking at me, and smiling a little. - -"Tell me," he says, "do you live about here?" - -"Me? Right here. I'm the original Maud Muller," I says. - -"And what do you do besides rake hay?" he says. - -I couldn't think what else Maud Muller done. I hadn't read it since -Fifth Reader. So I says: - -"Well, she don't often get a chance to talk with traveling gentlemen." - -"That's good," he says, "but--I wouldn't have thought it." - -I see he meant because I done it so easy and ready, so I give him as -good as he sent. - -"Wouldn't _you_?" I says. "Well, I s'pose you get a chance to flirt with -strange girls every town you strike." - -He looked at me again, not smiling now, but just awfully interested. I -see I was interesting him down to the ground. Lena Curtsy couldn't have -done it better. - -"Flirt," he says over. "What do you mean by 'flirt'?" - -I laughed at him. "You're a pretty one to ask that," I says, "with them -eyes." - -"Oh," he says serious, "then you like my eyes?" - -"I never said so," I gave him. "Do you like mine?" - -"Let me look at them," he said. - -We stopped in the road, and I looked him square in the eye. I can look -anybody in the eye. I looked at him straight, till he laughed and moved -on. He seemed to be thinking about something. - -"I think I like you best when you sing," he said. "Won't you sing -something else?" - -"Sure," I says, and wheeled around in the road, and kind of skipped -backward. And I sung: - - - "Oh, oh, oh, oh! Pull down the blinds! - When they hear the organ play-ing - They won't know what we are say-ing. - Pull down the blinds!" - - -I'd heard it to the motion-picture show the week before. I was thankful -he could see I was up on the nice late tunes. - -"I wonder," says the man, "if you can tell me something. I wonder if you -can tell me what made you pick out this song to sing to me, and what -made you sing that other song when you were alone?" - -All at once the morning come back. Ever since I met him I'd forgot the -morning and the sun, and the way I'd felt when I started out alone. I'd -just been thinking about myself, and about how I could make him think I -was cute and up-to-date. Now it was just as if the country road opened -up again, and there I was on it, opposite the Dew Drop Inn, just being -me. I looked up at him. - -"Honest," I says, "I don't know. I guess it was because I wanted you to -think I was fun." - -He looked at me for a minute, straight and deep. - -"By Jove!" he says, and I didn't know what ailed him. "Have you had -breakfast?" he ask', short. - -"No," I says. - -"You come in here with me and get some," he says, like an order. - -He led the way into the yard of the Dew Drop Inn. There's a grape arbor -there, and some bare hard dirt, and two or three tables. Nobody was -there, only the boy, sweeping the dirt with a broom. We sat down at the -table in the arbor. It was pleasant to be there. A house wren was -singing his head off somewhere near. A woman come out and sloshed water -on the stone at the back door and begun scrubbing. A clock in the bar -struck six. - -Joe Burkey, that keeps the Inn, come out and nodded to me. - -"Joe," I says, "did Keddie Bingy come back here?" - -Joe wiped his hands on the cloth on his arm, and then brushed his -mustache with it, and then wiped off the table with it. - -"I don't know nothin' about K. Bingy," says Joe. "I t'run him out o' my -place last night, neck _and_ crop, for bein' drunk and disorderly. I -ain't seen him since." - -I looked up at Joe's little eyes. They looked like the eyes of the wolf -in the picture in our dining-room. Joe's got a fat chin, and a fat -smile, but his eyes don't match them. - -"You coward and you brute," I says to him, "where did Keddie Bingy _get_ -drunk and disorderly?" - -Joe begun to sputter and to step around in new places. The man I was -with brought his hand down on the table. - -"Never mind that," he says, "what you've to do is bring some breakfast. -What will you have for your breakfast, mademoiselle?" he says to me. - -"Why," I says, "some salt pork and some baking powder biscuit for me, -and some fried potatoes and a piece of some kind of pie. What kind have -you got?" - -"Apple and raisin," says Joe, sulky. But the man I was with he says: - -"Suppose you let me order our breakfast. Will you?" - -"Suit yourself, I'm sure," says I. "I ain't used to the best." - -The man thought a minute. - -"Back there a little way," he says, "I crossed something that looked -like a trout stream. Is it a trout stream?" - -"Sure," says Joe and I together. - -"How long," says the man, "would it take that boy there to bring in a -small catch?" - -"My!" I says, "he can do that quicker'n a cat can lick his eye. Can't -he, Joe?" - -"Very well," says the man. "We will have brook trout for breakfast. Make -a lemon butter for them, please, and use good butter. With that bring us -some toast, very thin, very brown and very hot, with more good butter. -Have you some orange marmalade?" - -"Sure," says Joe, "but it costs thirty cents a jar; I open the whole--" - -"Some orange marmalade," says the man. "And coffee--I wonder what that -good woman there would say to letting me make the coffee?" - -"Her? She'll do whatever I tell her," says Joe. "But we charge extra -when guests got to make their own coffee." - -"And now," says the man, getting through with that, "what can you bring -us while we wait? Some peaches?" - -"The orchard," says Joe, "is rotten wid peaches." - -"Good," says the man. "Now we understand each other. If mademoiselle -will excuse me, we will set the coffee on its way." - -I set and waited, thinking how funny it was for a man to make the -coffee. All Pa ever done in his life to help about the cooking was to -clean the fish. - -I went and played with a kitten, so's not to have to talk to Joe. I -didn't know what I might say to him. When I come back the table was laid -with a nice clean cloth and napkins that were ironed good and dishes -with little flowers on. When the woman come out to the well, I ask' her -if I could pick some phlox for the table. She laughed and said yes, if I -wanted to. So I got some, all pink. I was just bringing it when the man -come back. - -"Stand there, just for a minute," he says. - -I done like he told me, by the door of the arbor. I thought he was going -to say something nice, and I hoped I'd think of something smart and -sassy to say back to him. But all he says was just: - -"Thank you. Now, come and sit down, please." - -We fixed the flowers. Then Joe brought a basket of beautiful peaches, -and we took what we wanted. The man took one, and sat touching it with -the tips of his fingers, and he looked over at me with a nice smile. - -"And now, my child," he says, "tell me your name." - -I always hate to tell folks my name. In the village they've always made -fun of it. - -"What do you want to bother with that for?" I says. "Ain't I good enough -without a tag?" - -He spoke almost sharp. "I want you to tell me your name," he says. - -[Illustration: "I want you to tell me your name," he said] - -So I told him. "Cosma Wakely," I says. - -He looked funny. "Really?" he says. "_Cosma?_" - -"But everybody calls me 'Cossy,'" I says quick. "I know what a funny -name it is. My grandmother named me. She was queer." - -"_Cossy!_" he says over. "Why, Cosma is perfect." - -"You're kiddin' me," I says. "Don't you think I don't know it." - -He didn't say he wasn't. - -"Ain't you going to tell me your name?" I says. "Not that I s'pose -you'll tell me the right one. They never do." - -"My name," he says, "is John Ember." - -"On the square?" I asked him. - -"Yes," he says. He was a funny man. He didn't have a bit of come-back. -He took you just plain. He reminded me of the way I acted with Luke. But -usually I could jolly like the dickens. - -"You travel, I guess," I says. "What do you travel for?" - -He laughed. "If I understand you," he said, "you are asking me what my -line is?" - -I nodded. I'd just put the pit in my mouth, so I couldn't guess -something sassy, like pickles. - -"I have no line," he says. "It's an area." - -"Huh?" I says--on account of the pit. - -"I travel," says he, "for the human race. But they don't know it." - -"Sure," I says, when I had it swallowed, "you got to sell to everybody, -I know that. But what do you sell 'em?" - -He shook his head. - -"I don't sell it," he says. "They won't buy it. I shall always be a -philanthropist. The commodity," says he, "is books." - -"Oh!" I says. "A book agent! I'd have taken you for a regular salesman." - -"I tell you I _don't_ sell 'em," he says. "Nobody will buy. I just write -'em." - -I put down my other peach and looked at him. - -"An author?" I says. "You?" - -"Thank you," says he, "for believing me. Nobody else will. Now don't -let's talk about that. Do you mind telling me something about yourself?" - -"Oh," I says, "I've got a book all made out of wrapping paper. It ain't -wrote yet, it's in the bottom drawer. But I'm going to write one." - -"Good!" he says. "Tell me about that, too." - -I don't know what made me, except the surprise of finding that he was -what he was, instead of a traveling man. But the first thing I knew I -was telling him about me; how I'd stopped school when I was fourteen, -and had worked out for a little while in town; and then when the boys -got the job in the blast furnace, I came home to help Ma. I told him how -the only place I'd ever been, besides the village, was to the city, -twice. Only two things I didn't tell him at first--about what home was -like, and about Luke. But he got them both out of me. Because I wound up -what I was telling him with something I thought was the thing to say. -Lena Curtsy always said it. - -"I've just been living at home for four years now," I said. "I s'pose -it's the place for a girl." - -I remember how calm and slow he was when he answered. - -"Why no," he says. "Your home is about the last place in the world a -girl of your age ought to be." - -"What do you know about my home?" I asked him quick. - -"I don't mean your home," he says. "I mean any home, if it's your -parents' home. If you can't be in school, why aren't you out by this -time doing some useful work of your own?" - -"Work," I says. "I do work. I work like a dog." - -"I don't mean doing your family's work," he said. "I mean doing your own -work. Of course you're not going to tell me you're happy?" - -"No," I says, "I ain't happy. I hate my work. I hate the kind of a home -I live in. It's Bedlam, the whole time. I'm going to get married to get -out of it." - -"So you are going to be married," he says. "What's the man like--do you -mind telling me that?" - -I told him about Luke, just the way he is. While I talked he was eating -his peaches. I'd been through with mine quite a while now, so I noticed -him eat his. He done it kind of with the tips of his fingers. I liked to -watch him. He sort of broke the peach. The juice didn't run down. I -remembered how I must have et mine, and I felt ashamed. - -Before I was all through about Luke, Joe come in with the trout, and -some thin, crispy potatoes on the platter, and the toast and the -marmalade; and Mr. Ember went to see about the coffee. He brought it out -himself, and poured it himself--and it smelled like something I'd never -smelled before. And now, when he begun to eat, I watched him. I broke my -toast, like he done. I used my fork on the trout, like him, and I -noticed he took his spoon out of his cup, and I done that, too, though -I'd got so I could drink from a cup without a handle and hold the spoon -with my finger, like the boys done. I kept tasting the coffee, too, -instead of drinking it off at once, even when it was hot, like I'd -learned the trick of. I didn't know but his way just happened to be his -way, but I wanted to make sure. Anyway, I never smack my lips, and Luke -and the boys do that. - -"Now," he said, "while we enjoy this very excellent breakfast, will you -do me the honor to let me tell you a little something about me?" - -I don't see what honor that would be, and I said so. And then he told me -things. - -I'm sorry that I can't put them down. It was wonderful. It was just like -a story the teacher tells you when you're little and not too old for -stories. It turned out he'd been to Europe and to Asia. He'd done things -that I never knew there was such things. But he didn't talk about him, -he just talked about the things and the places. I forgot to eat. It -seemed so funny that I, Cossy Wakely, should be listening to somebody -that had done them things. He said something about a volcano. - -"A volcano!" I says. "Do they have them _now_? I thought that was only -when the geography was." - -"But the geography _is_, you know," he says. "It is now." - -"Did that big flat book all mean now?" I says. "I thought it meant long -ago. I had a picture of the Ark and the flood and the Temple, and when -the stars fell--" - -"Oh, the fools!" he says to himself; but I didn't know who he meant, and -I was pretty sure he must mean me. - -All the while we were having breakfast, he talked with me. When it was -over, and he'd paid the bill--I tried my best to see how much it was, so -as to tell Lena Curtsy, but I couldn't--he turned around to me and he -says: - -"The grass is not wet this morning. It's high summer. Will you walk with -me up to the top of that hill over there in the field? I want to show -you the whole world." - -"Sure," I says. "But you can't see much past Twiney's pasture from that -little runt of a hill." - -We climbed the fence. He put his hand on a post and vaulted the wire as -good as the boys could have done. When he turned to help me, I was just -doing the same thing. Then it come over me that maybe an author wouldn't -think that was ladylike. - -"I always do them that way," I says, kind of to explain. - -"Is there any other way?" says he. - -"No!" says I, and we both laughed. It was nice to laugh with him, and it -was the first time we'd done it together. - -The field was soft and shiny. There was pretty cobwebs. Everything -looked new and glossy. - -"Great guns!" I says. "Ain't it nice out here?" - -"That's exactly what I've been thinking," says he. - -We went along still for a little ways. It come to me that maybe, if I -could only say some of the things that moved around on the outside of my -head, he might like them. But I couldn't get them together enough. - -"It makes you want to think nice thoughts," I says, by and by. - -"Doesn't it?" he says, with his quick, straight look. "And when it does, -then you do." - -"I don't know enough," I says. "I wisht I did." - -I'll never, never forget when we come to the top of the little hill. He -stood there with nothing but the sky, blue as fury, behind him. - -"Now look," he says. "There's New York, over there." - -"You can't see New York from here!" I says. "Not with no specs that was -ever invented." - -He went right on. "Down there," he says, "are St. Louis and Cincinnati -and New Orleans. Across there is Chicago. And away on there are two days -of desert--two days, by express train!--and then mountains and a green -coast, and San Francisco and the Pacific. And then all the things we -talked about this morning: Japan and India and the Alps and London and -Rome and the Nile." - -I wondered what on earth he was driving at. - -"Which do you want to do," says he, "go there, and try to find these -places? You won't find them, you know. But at least, you'll know they're -in the world. Or live down there in a little farm-house like that one -and slave for Luke?" - -"But I can't even try to find them places," I says. "How could I?" - -"Maybe not," he says. "Maybe not. I don't say you could. All I mean is -this, Why not think of your life as if you have really been born, and -not as if you were waiting to be born?" - -"Oh," I says, "don't you s'pose I've thought of that? But I can't get -away." - -"Yes, you can," he says, looking at me, earnest. "Yes, you can. If you -just say the word." - -I was as tall as he was, and I looked right at him, with all the -strength I had. - -"Do you think," I says, "that because I'm from the country I ain't on to -all such talk as that? Do you think I don't know what them kind of -hold-outs means? We ain't such fools as you think we are, not since -Hattie Duffy thought she was going to Paris, and ended in the bottom of -a pond. They's only one way any of us ever gets to see any of them -things, and don't you think we're fooled unless we want to be. No, sir. -We ain't that fresh." - -He scared me the way he whirled round at me. - -"You miserable little creature!" he said. "What are you talking about?" - -"Well," I says, "don't you ever think I--" - -Then he done a funny thing. He drew a deep breath, and took his hat off -and looked up at the sky and off over the fields. - -"After all," he said, "thank God this is the way you are beginning to -take it! When a country girl can protect herself like that, it is -growing safe for her to be born. Listen to me, child," he says. - -He had me puzzled for fair by then. I just listened. - -"Just now," he says, "I called you a miserable little creature. That was -because you quite naturally mistook me for one of the wretched hunters -whom women have been trying to evade since the beginning. Well, I was -wrong to call you that. Instead, I applaud your magnificent ability to -take care of yourself. I applaud even more in the incident--but I won't -bother you with that." - -I kept trying to see what he meant. - -"Now you must," he said, "try to understand me. What I meant to say to -you was that with the whole world to choose from, you are, in my -opinion, quite wrong to settle down here to your farm and your Luke and -the drudgery you say you loathe, without ever giving yourself a chance -to choose at all. Perhaps you would come back and settle here because -you wanted to.... I hope you would do that, under somewhat different -conditions. But don't settle here because you're trapped and can't get -out." - -"But I can't get out--" I was beginning, but he went on: - -"I know perfectly well that a great part of the world would think that I -ought not to be talking to you like that. They would say that you are -'safe' here. That you and Luke would have a quiet, contented life. But I -care nothing at all for such safety. I think that unreasonable -contentment leads to various kinds of damnation. If you were an ordinary -girl I should not be talking to you like this. I should not have the -courage--yet; not while life treats women as it treats them now. But in -spite of your vulgarity, you are a remarkable woman." - -"In spite of _what_?" I says. - -"I mean it," he says, "and you must let me tell you, because you seem to -be, in all but one thing, a fine straightforward creature. But in the -way you treat men, you _are_ vulgar, you know. Not hopelessly, just -deplorably. Now tell me the truth. Why did you pretend to flirt with me? -For that isn't your natural manner. You put it on. Why did you do that?" - -I could tell him that well enough. - -"Why," I says, "I guess it was the same as the singing. I wanted you to -know I wasn't a stick. I wanted you to think I was lively and fun. It's -the way the girls do. I can't do it as good as they do, I know that." - -"Promise me," he says, "that if ever you do get out, you'll be the fine -and straightforward one--not the other one." - -"I shan't get out," I says. "I can't get out." - -"'I can't get out,'" he says over. "'I can't get out.' It's a great -mistake. If you feel it in you to get out, then you'll get out. That's -the answer." - -"I do," I says. "I always have. I wake up in the mornings...." - -I'll never know what it was that come over me. But all of a sudden, the -me that laid awake nights and thought, and the me that had come out in -the sun that morning was the only me I had, and it could talk. - -"Oh," I says, "don't you think I'm the way I seemed back there on the -road. I'm different; but I'm the only one that knows that. I like nice -things. I'd like to act nice. I'd like to be the way I could be. But -there ain't enough of me to be that way. And I don't know what to do." - -He took both my hands. - -"And I don't know what you're to do," he said. "That is the part you -must find for yourself. It's like dying--yet a while, till they get us -going." - -We stood still for a minute. And then I saw what I hadn't seen -before--what a grand face he had. He wasn't like the handsome men on -calendars or on cigar boxes, or on the signs. He was like somebody else -I hadn't ever seen before. His face wasn't young at all, but it looked -glad, and that made it seem young. - -"I wish you wouldn't ever go way," I says. - -"I ought to be miles from here at this moment," he says. "Now see here -... I want to give you these." - -He took two cards out of his pocket, and wrote on them. - -"This one is mine," he says. "If you do come to the city, you are surely -to let me know that you are there. And if you take this other card to -this address here, this gentleman may be able to give you work. Now -good-by. I'm going to cut through the meadow, and I suppose you'll be -going back." - -He put out his hand. - -"Don't go," I says. "Don't go. I shan't ever find anybody to talk to -again." - -"That's part of your job, you know," he says. "Remember you _have_ a -job. Good-by, child." - -He went off down the slope. At the foot of it he stopped. - -"Cosma!" he shouts, "don't ever let them call you anything else, you -know!" - -"I won't," I says. "Honest, I won't, Mr. Ember." - -I watched him just as far as I could see him. On the road he turned and -waved his hand. When he was out of sight I started to go back home. But -when I see things again, I'll never forget the lonesomeness. Things was -like a sucked-out sack. I laid down in the grass--I haven't cried since -the last time Pa whipped me, six years ago, but I thought I was going to -cry now. Then I happened to think that was the way I'd have done before -I met him; but it wasn't the way I must do now. Instead, I got up on to -my feet and I started for home on the run. It was like something was -starting somewheres, and I _had_ to hurry. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Mother was scrubbing the well-house. - -"Cossy Wakely," she says, "where you been?" - -"Walking," I says. - -"Walking!" says she; "with all I got to do. I should think you'd be -ashamed of yourself. My land, what you got on your best clothes for?" - -"Mother," I says, "you call me 'Cosma' after this, will you?" - -She stared at me. "Such airs," she says. "And callin' me 'Mother.' Who -you been with? What you rigged out like that for?" - -"I didn't dress up for anybody," I says, "only because I wanted to." - -"Such a young one as you've turned out," says she. "What's to become of -you I don't know. Wait till your Pa comes in--I'll tell him." - -"Mother," I says, "I'm twenty years old. You call me 'Cosma,' and let -me call you 'Mother.' And don't feel you have to scold me all the time." - -"I'll quit scolding you fast enough," she says, "when you quit deserving -it. Go and get out of them togs, the dishes are waiting for you." - -I went in the house. Mis' Bingy was not there, up-stairs or down. I went -back to the door and asked about her. - -"Why, she's gone home," says Mother. "You didn't s'pose she was going to -live here, did you?" - -"Home?" I says. "Where that man is?" - -"We can't all pick out our homes," she says, scrubbing the boards. - -Pa heard her. He was just coming in from the barn with the swill buckets -to fill. - -"That's you," he says, "finding fault with the hands that feeds you. -Where'd you be, I'd like to know, if it wasn't for this home and me? In -the poorhouse." - -Mother straightened up on her knees by the well. - -"Mean to say I don't pay my keep?" she says. - -For a minute she seemed young and somebody, like when she was asleep. - -"Not when you dish up such pickings as you done this morning," says Pa. - -She screamed out something at him, and I ran across the yard toward Mis' -Bingy's. They were going on so hard they forgot about me. - -The grove was still. I wished _he_ could have seen it. As soon as I got -in it, I forgot about home, and the time before come back on me, like -some of me singing. That was it--some of me singing. But I see right off -the grove was different. It was almost as if he _had_ been in it, and -had showed me things about it. I begun looking out at it the way I -thought he'd be looking at it. There seemed to be more of the grove than -I thought there was. Then I thought how he'd never be there in it, and -how I'd prob'ly never see him again, and something in me hurt, and I -didn't want to go on. What was the use?... What was the use?... What was -the use?... - -Mis' Bingy's house lay all still in the sun. The sunflowers and -hollyhocks by the back door and the chickens picking around looked all -peaceful and like home. I thought Mr. Bingy must be sleeping off his -drunk, and her keeping quiet not to disturb him. - -The kitchen door was standing open and I stepped up on the porch. And -then I heard a terrible cry, from right there in the room. - -"Go back--back, Cossy!" Mis' Bingy said. "He'll kill you!" - -All in an instant I took it in. She was sitting crouched on the bed, -shielding the baby with a pillow. And he set close beside the door, -sharpening his hatchet. - -He jumped up when he see me. I remember his red eyes and his teeth, and -his thin whiskers that showed his chin through. Then he sprang forward, -right toward me and on to me, with his hatchet in his hand. - -I donno how I done it. For no reason, I guess, only that I'm big and -strong and he was little and pindling. I know I never stopped to think -or decide nothing. I dodged his hatchet and I jumped at him. I threw my -whole strength at him, with my hands on his face and his throat. He went -down like a log, because I was so much bigger and so strong. But that -wouldn't have saved us, only that, as he fell, he hit his head on the -sharp corner of the cook stove. He rolled over on his back, and the -hatchet flew out on the zinc. - -"You killed him!" Mis' Bingy says. She sat up, but she didn't go to him. - -"We ain't no time to think of that," I says. "Get your things and come." - -She didn't ask anything. She took the baby and run right and got a -bundle of things she'd got ready. I see then that she had on her best -black dress, and the baby was all dressed clean and embroidered. I -picked up the hatchet, and we went out the door, and shut it behind us. -She never looked back, even when we got to the door; and I noticed that, -because it wasn't like Mis' Bingy, that's soft and frightened. - -"I don't mind what he done to me," she said, "but just now he took the -baby--and touched her hand--to the hot griddle." - -She showed me. - -"I hope he's dead," I said. - -"Where shall I go?" she says. "My God, where shall I go?" - -"Ain't you no folks?" I asked her. - -"Not near enough so's I've got the fare," she says. "Anyhow, I don't -want to come on to them." - -We was in the grove at the time. I donno as it would have come to me so -quick if we hadn't been there. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "let's us go to the city together, you and me. And -find a job." - -I thought she'd draw back. But she just stopped still in the path and -looked at me round the baby's head. - -"You couldn't do that, could you?" she says. - -"Yes," I says. "I didn't know it before, but I know it now. I could do -that." - -She kep' on looking at me, with something coming in her face. - -"You couldn't go to-day, could you?" she says. - -I hadn't thought of to-day, but the thing was on me then. - -"Why not to-day as good as any day?" I says. - -"Your Ma--" she says. - -"This is different," I says. "This is for me to do." - -We come to the edge of the grove, and across the open lot I could see -Mother. She was spreading out her scrubbing cloth on the grass to dry. I -went up to her, and I wasn't scared nor I didn't dread anything because -I was so sure. - -"Mother," I says, "Mis' Bingy and I are going up to the city together to -get some work. And we're goin' to-day. But first I've got to go and find -somebody. I donno but I've killed Mr. Bingy." - -I don't remember all the things she said. All of a sudden, my head was -full of other things that stood out sharp, and I couldn't take in what -was going on all around, not with what I had to think about. Mis' Bingy -sat down by the well-house and went to nursing the baby, and Mother -stood up before her asking her things. I left 'em so, and ran down the -road to the Inn. That was the nearest place I could get anybody. - -It was about ten o'clock in the morning by that time. All this had -happened to me before it was time to get the potatoes ready for dinner. -I remember thinking that as I run. There was the Inn--and Joe was out -wiping off the tables in the yard, with the same dirty cloth, and -straightening up the chairs. - -"Joe," I says, "I ain't sure, but I think I've hurt Mr. Bingy pretty -bad. Is there somebody can go up to their house and see?" - -Joe stared, his thick, red, open lips and his red tongue looking more -surprised than his little wolf eyes. - -"What?" he says. - -When I'd made him know, he got two men from the field and they run up -the road toward Bingy's. On the Inn window-sill was the same kitten I'd -played with while I was waiting for the coffee. I went and got it and -sat down at the table where we'd been. It seemed a day since I was -there. I seemed like somebody else. For the first time I wondered what -would be if Keddie Bingy was dead. But it wasn't the being arrested or -stood up in the court room or locked in jail that I thought of, and it -wasn't Keddie at all. All I kept thinking was: - -"If Keddie's dead, I won't never see _him_ again." - -I sat there going over that, and holding the kitten. It was a nice -little kitten that looked up in my face more helpless than anything but -a baby, or a bird, or a puppy. I felt kind of like some such helpless -things. The world wasn't like what I thought it was. More things -happened to you than I ever knew could happen. I always thought they -happened just to other folks. The tables and the bare, swept dirt didn't -look as if anything was happening anywheres near them, and yet down the -road maybe was a dead man that I'd killed. And a mile and more away by -now _he_ was, and a little bit ago he'd been here, and the me that set -there with him had been somebody else. And the me that had been awake -before daybreak that morning probably wouldn't ever be me at all, any -more. Everything was different forever. I saw something on the ground, -down by the arbor. It was the pink phlox I had picked. They threw it -away when they wanted to wash the glass. It seemed so helpless, laying -there without any water. I went and got it and put it on my dress. - -Pretty soon I heard them coming back, talking. Joe and one of the men -come in sight, and Joe sung out: - -"It's all right. He's groaning. Ben's gone for a doctor. What happened?" - -I told 'em; but I wanted to get away. - -"Well, shave my bones," Joe says, "if you ain't the worst I ever see. -Why didn't you leave the woman knock down her own man?" - -"Why didn't you leave her get him drunk?" I says. "If I'd have killed -him, it'd been you that murdered him, Joe." - -"Now, look here," says Joe, "I'm a-carrying on an honest business. If a -man goes for to make a fool of himself, is that my lookout, or ain't -it? Who do you think lets me keep this business, anyway? It's the U. S. -Gover'ment, that's who it is. You better be careful what you sling at -this business." - -"Then it's the Gover'ment that's a big fool, instead of you and Keddie," -I says, and started for home. I remember Joe shouted out something; but -all I was thinking was that the day before I'd of thought it was wicked -to say what I'd just said, and now I didn't; and I wondered why. - -There wasn't a minute to lose now, because if Keddie was groaning he'd -be up and out again and looking for both of us. Mother and Mis' Bingy -and the baby was still out in the yard by the well-house, and Father was -just starting down the road after me. - -It's funny, but what, just the day before, would have been a thing so -big I wouldn't have thought of doing it, chiefly on account of the row -it'd make, was now just easy and natural. They must have said things, I -remember how loud their voices were and how I wished they wouldn't. And -I remember them saying over and over the same thing: - -"You don't need to go. You don't _need_ to go. Ain't you always had a -roof over you and enough to eat? A girl had ought to be thankful for a -good home." - -But I went and got my things ready and got myself dressed. I wanted to -tell them about the feeling I had that I _had_ to go, but I couldn't -tell about that, now that I was going, any more than I could tell when I -thought I mustn't go. - -I did say something to Mother when she come and stood in the bedroom -door and told me I was an ungrateful girl. - -"Ungrateful for what?" I says. - -"For me bringing you up and working my head off for you," she says, "and -your Pa the same." - -"But, Mother," I says, "that was your job to do. And me--I ain't found -my job--yet." - -"Your job is to do as we tell you to," says Mother. "The idea!" - -I tried, just that once, to make her see. - -"Mother," I says, "I'm separate. I'm somebody else. I'm old enough to -get a-hold of some life like you've had, and some work I want to do. And -I can't do it if I stay here. I'm _separate_--don't you see that?" - -Then it come over me, dim, how surprised she must feel, after all, to -have to think that, that I was separate, instead of her and hers. I went -over toward her--I wanted to tell her so. But she says: - -"I don't know what you're coming to. And I'm glad I don't. When I'm dead -and gone, you'll think of this." - -And then I couldn't say what I'd tried to say. But I thought what she -said was true, that I would think about it some day, and be sorry. If it -hadn't been for Mis' Bingy, I s'pose I'd have given it up, even then. -It's hard to make a thing that's been so for a long time stop being so. -But Mis' Bingy needed me, and I was sorry for her; and I liked the -feeling. - -On the stairs Mother thought of something else. - -"What about Luke?" she says. - -I hadn't thought of Luke. - -"He'd ought to be the one to set his foot down," says Mother, "seeing we -can't do anything with you." - -Set his foot down--Luke! Why? Because he'd tell me he loved me and I -said I'd marry him! I went to the pail for a drink of water, and I stood -there and laughed. Luke setting his foot down on me because I said he -might! - -"She'll come back when she's hungry," says Father. "Don't carry on so, -Mate." - -Mate was Mother's name. I hadn't heard Father call her that many times. -It come to me that my going away was something that brought them nearer -together for a minute. And _Mate_! It meant something, something that -she was. She _was_ Father's mate. They'd met once for the first time. -They'd wanted their life to be nice. I ran up to them and kissed them -both. And then for the first time in my life I saw Mother's lip tremble. - -"I'll do up your clean underclothes," she says, "and send 'em after you. -You tell me where." - -"Mother, Mother!" I says, and took hold of her. If it hadn't been for -Mis' Bingy I'd have given up going then and there, and married Luke -whenever he said so. - -It was Mis' Bingy's scared face that give me courage to go, and it was -her face that kept my mind off myself all the way to the depot. I -thought she was going to faint away when we went by the lane that led up -to their house. But we never heard anything or saw anybody. We were -going to the depot, and just set there until the first train come along -for the city. And all the while we did set there, Mis' Bingy got paler -and paler every time the door opened, or somebody shouted out on the -platform. She wanted to take the first train that come in and get away -anywheres, even if it took us out of our way. But I got her to wait the -half hour till the city train come along; and as the time went by she -begun to be less willing to go at all. - -"Cossy," she says, when we heard the engine whistle, "I've been wrong. -I'm being a bad wife. I'm going back." - -"What kind of a wife you're being," I says, "that's got nothing to do -with it. It's _her_." - -She looked down at the baby. The baby had on her little best cloak, and -a bonnet that the ruffle come down over her eyes. She wasn't a pretty -baby, her face was spotted and she made a crooked mouth when she cried. -But she was soft and helpless, and I didn't mind her being homely. - -"I'm taking her away from a father's care," says Mis' Bingy, beginning -to cry. - -It seemed to me wicked the way she was stuffed full of words that didn't -mean anything, like "bad wife" and "father's care." I didn't say -anything, though. The baby's hand lay spread out on her cloak, with the -burned part done up in a rag and some soda, the way Mother'd fixed it. I -just picked up the little hand, and looked up at Mis' Bingy. - -When the train come in, she went out and got on to it, without another -word. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -It was past one o'clock when we got to the city, and we hadn't had -anything to eat. We found a lunch place near the depot, and then I spent -a penny for a paper, and we set there in the restaurant and tried to -find where to go. It wasn't much of any fun, getting to the city, not -the way you'd think it would be, because Mis' Bingy and I didn't know -where we were going. - -The Furnished Room page all sounded pleasant, but when we asked the -restaurant keeper where the cheap ones were, most of them was quite far -to walk. Finally we picked out some near each other and started out to -find them. I carried my valise and Mis' Bingy's, and she had the baby. -It was a hot day, with a feel of thunder in the air. - -We walked for two hours, because neither of us thought we'd ought to -begin by spending car-fare. Mis' Bingy had sixteen dollars that she'd -saved, off and on, for two years. I had five dollars. So neither of us -was worried very much about money; but we wanted to save all we could. -We went to five or six places that were nice, but they cost too much; -and to two that we could have taken, only the lady said she didn't want -a baby in the house. - -"If they're born in your house, do you turn 'em out?" I says to one of -'em. - -Pretty soon we found a little grassy place with trees, and big buildings -around it, and we went in that and sat down on the grass. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "was you ever in the city before?" - -"Sure I was," she says, proud, "twelve years ago. We come to his uncle's -funeral. But he didn't leave him anything." - -"I was here once," I says, "when I was 'leven. To have my eyes done to. -And once when I was eighteen, when Mother got her teeth. Did you ever go -to the theater here?" I ask' her. - -"No," says she. - -"Did you ever see in a jewelry store here?" - -"No," says she. - -"Or in stores with low-neck dresses and light colors?" - -"No," says she. - -"Nor the Zoo with the animals, nor a store where they sell just flowers, -nor the band?" I says. - -"No," says she. "But he used to tell me, when he come up sometimes," she -tacks on. - -The sun kept coming out and going under. The trees moved pleasant and -folks went hurrying by. It kind of come over me: - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "you ain't ever had anything in your whole life, -and neither have I. And now it's the city!" - -But she put her head down on the baby and begun to cry. - -"I don't know what's going to become of us," she says. "It's awful." - -I jumped up and stood on the grass and looked off down the street toward -the city. - -"And I don't know what's going to become of us!" I says. "Ain't it -grand?" - -I laughed, and whirled on my toe. A woman was going along the walk that -cut through the grassy place where we was. She looked nice, like -pictures of women. - -"Excuse me," I says to her, "can you tell us somebody that has a room to -rent, a cheap room?" - -"I'm sorry," she says, and bent her head and went on. - -It give me a little cold feeling. It come to me that maybe everything -wasn't the way it looked. - -"Come on, Mis' Bingy," I says, "it's getting late. We don't want to -sleep out here to-night." - -The room that we finally found was at the back and up two stairways, and -it cost fifty cents more than we thought we'd pay, but we took it. - -And now the singing in me that I'd been keeping down while there was -things to do, come up through, the little funny singing that was all -over me. I took out the two cards--that I'd got only that morning, that -seemed, lifetimes back--and laid one of 'em on the bureau. It was Mr. -Ember's card. The other one I wouldn't look up till to-morrow when I -started out to find my work. But this one was his card, that he'd told -me would find him. He'd been on his way back to the city that morning. -By now he would be here. And I wasn't going to wait. - -I put on my other shoes and a clean waist, and I told Mis' Bingy that -I'd be back in a little while. She was going to try to go to sleep. I -heard her lock the door before I got to the stairs, and I knew that -she'd be afraid all the time that Keddie was going to find her. - -Out on the street I asked how to get to the address on the card. It was -on the far edge of the town: the policeman begun to tell me which car to -take. - -"I'll walk," I says. - -"It'll take you an hour," says he. - -"It's my hour," says I, and I started. But it come to me that that -wasn't the way Mr. Ember would have thought anybody ought to answer, -and I felt kind of sick. I thought, How was I going to remember to do -all the ways I knew he'd want? - -It took me more than an hour to walk it. It was 'most six o'clock when I -finally turned in the little street, just a block long, where he lived. -My heart begun to beat, while I walked along slow, looking at the -numbers. It come to me that maybe he wouldn't be glad to see me. - -Sixteen ... eighteen ... twenty-two ... twenty-four, and that was his. -It had a high brick fence--I could just see the roof over it--and a -little picket gate standing open. I went along a short walk with green -and yellow bushes on each side to a low porch with a door, that was -standing open, too. And on the door was two cards: "Mr. Arthur Gordon" -was on one. The other was his. Below them it said: "Visitors Enter." - -So I went in, the way it said, through a low, bare, dim hall, and -through a door on the right to a little room; and beyond was a big -room, with a queer, sloping window all over the ceiling. The room had -pictures on the walls. And it was full of folks. - -I stood by the door looking for him. It didn't seem possible that we -could meet here, now, when I'd left him such a little while ago, there -in Twiney's pasture. There was a good many different kinds of men, most -of them smiling. They were looking at the pictures, or drinking from -cups round a white table. I looked at them first, one after another; but -none of them was him. - -Then I begun noticing the women. They looked like the kind I'd seen in -the _Weekly_, Saturdays, when there was pictures. They were all -light-colored, with dresses that you couldn't tell how they were made, -and hair that you couldn't remember how it was done up, and soft voices -that went up and down, different from any I'd ever heard. I could hear -what some of them near me were saying, but there was none of it that I -could understand, nor what it was about, nor what the names meant. And -all of a sudden I see through it: These folks must all have done the -things he had done--Asia, Europe, volcanoes--and they could talk about -it his way. These were the kind of people he was used to. - -Right near me was a woman in a dress that looked like I've seen the -clouds look like, all showing through pink, with a hat like I'd never -seen except once in a window when I was waiting for Mother and her -teeth. I remember just what the woman said--I stood saying it over, like -when I was learning a piece for elocution class, home. She says: - -"I beg your pardon? But I fancy Mr. Ember would call that effect far -from artificial...." - -They walked by me. I stood there, saying over and over what she had just -said about Mr. Ember. I didn't know what it meant, but it made me -remember something. It made me remember the way I'd talked to him that -morning, and the song I'd sung him, running backward on the road and -trying to flirt with him; and that about his not giving me his right -name. - -"Pardon me," somebody near me said, "I wonder if I may serve you in any -way?" - -I didn't half see the man who spoke to me. I just shook my head, and -slipped out the door and out of the little yard. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -It was that night that I begun this book. I'd brought in a loaf of bread -and a little warming pan and a can of baked beans. We het the beans over -the gas-jet and made a good supper--the water in the wash pitcher was -all right to drink. Then Mis' Bingy went to bed with the baby, and I got -out the paper I'd fixed, and I started. It seemed as though I must. I -had the feeling that I wanted to get out from the place I was in. Home, -when I felt like that, I used to sweep the parlor or shampoo my hair, or -try to get Father to leave me earn some money, helping him. Once I took -my egg money and started lessons on our organ. But such things don't get -you anywheres. And it seemed as though the book would help. - -I didn't know anything to write about, only just me. It come to me that -I ought to tell about me. But nothing worth writing had ever happened -to me till just that morning. So I started in, and wrote near all -night--down to the part where we got to the city. The gas smelled bad. I -always remember that night. Before I knew it, it was getting light in -the window. Then I put up the paper and crawled over back of Mis' Bingy -and the baby, and went to sleep. And when I went to sleep, and when I -woke up in the morning, the same thing was in my head right along--that -mebbe I could get to be enough different so's I could see him again, -some day. Because I knew I wasn't never going to let him see me again -while I was the way I was now. But I wondered how to get different. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says next morning, "how do folks get different?" - -"Hard work and trouble, mostly," she says. - -"I don't mean backward," I says. "I mean frontward." - -She shook her head. "I donno," she says. "I used to think about that, -some." - -We had the rest of the beans and bread, and then I started out. After -she got the baby dressed, Mis' Bingy was going out to set in the green -place where we'd been yesterday. - -"I could work," she says, "if it wasn't for the baby. She's lots of -work, too. But that don't earn us nothing." - -She was always making lace, and she'd brought along a lot she made--the -bottom drawer of the washstand was full of it. Making that, and tending -the baby, kep' her occupied; but, as she said, it didn't earn us -anything. - -I had the other card that Mr. Ember had given me, and that morning I -started out to find the man. John Carney, the name was, and it was a -long ways to walk. It was in a big office building. And when I got to -the right door, a smart young guy behind a fence says, What did I want -to see Mr. Carney about, and wouldn't one of the men in the office do? I -just give him Mr. Ember's card to take in, and when he'd gone I felt -glad; because if it had been the day before, when I hadn't seen that -room full of folks nor heard the woman in the pinkish dress speak like -she done, I bet I'd of said to that young guy: "You go and chase -yourself to the pasture and quit your fresh lip." Just like Lena Curtsy -would have said. - -I had to wait quite a while till they sent for me. And when I went in -the office, long and like a parlor in a picture, I stood in front of a -big gray man whose shoulders were the principal part. And there was a -little young man there, sitting loose in a big easy chair, looking at a -newspaper. I noticed the little young man particular, because he didn't -look like anything, and he acted like so much. He didn't belong in the -office. He just happened. - -"What can I do for you, madam?" says the big gray man, with Mr. Ember's -card in his hand. "Mr. Carney is absent in Europe." - -"Oh," I says, "then I don't know. Mr. Ember thought Mr. Carney'd maybe -help me to get a job." - -The little young man spoke up. - -"I expect you'll meet up with a good deal of that kind of thing, Bliss," -he says, glancing up from his newspaper and glancing down again. -"Everybody sends 'em to my uncle. He--makes it a point to know of -things. He's a regular employment agency, d'y'see, for the jobless -friends of his friends. I--er--shouldn't let it bother me." - -The big gray man was real nice and regretful. - -"I'm genuinely sorry," he said. "I really am. I happen to know Ember a -little--I'd be glad to oblige him. But this--we don't need a thing here. -I'm sorry Mr. Carney is away. It's unfortunate, but he _is_ away, for -some months." - -He said a few more things polite, and he took down my name and address -and said if anything _should_ turn up.... And I happened to think of -something. If we had to wait very long, it might bother some about the -rent. - -"You don't think it would be very long, do you?" I says. "On account of -Mis' Bingy and my rent." - -"I wish I could promise something more," says the big gray man, looking -back on his desk papers. "I'm sorry. Good morning." - -I didn't think till afterward that he'd never even troubled to ask me -what I could do. - -Then the little young man that had been setting loose in his chair, sat -up loose, and spoke loose, too. - -"I say," he said, "if she's a friend of Ember's, I might give her a card -to the factory." - -"I shouldn't trouble if I were you, Arthur," says the big gray man, -sharp; which I didn't think was very nice of him. - -But the little young man, tipping his cigar so's the smoke would keep -out of his eyes, and squinting back from it, took out a card and -scrawled on it and tossed it across the table toward me. - -"You might try that," he says. And shook himself, loose again, and -strolled out the door. He walked loose, too. - -I thanked him and put the card away, and went down in the elevator. It -was the same elevator, it turned out, that the little young man had -taken, but of course he didn't notice me. When I got down I asked the -man at the door how to get to the address of the factory that was -written on the card. He said it was about two miles, and told me with -his thumb which way. While I was trying to make out which way he meant, -I stood for a minute in the street doorway. And there was the little -young man again. - -"Do you know how to get to the factory?" he asked. - -"Yes. On my two feet," I says back, and started. - -"You don't mean to say you're going to walk all that way?" he says, -following me a step or two. - -"No," I says, "I don't mean to say it, as I know of." - -"Look here," he says, "my car is here at the side door. I'm on my way -over to the factory now. Can't I give you a lift?" - -I thought for a minute. I was awful tired. If I walked all that way and -then home, I'd have to spend ten cents for lunch that would be enough -for Mis' Bingy and me both at night. The little young man was a friend -of Mr. Carney's, that was a friend of Mr. Ember's.... - -"We'll be there in ten minutes," he says. - -"Much obliged," I says, and went with him. - -He had a nice little shiny two-seated car that he engineered himself. -When we was headed down the avenue he says: - -"My name is Arthur Carney. I'm Mr. Carney's nephew." - -I remembered about the awful things I'd said to Mr. Ember, so I answered -just as nice as I knew how: "I'm Cosma Wakely." - -"Do you live here in town?" he ask' me. - -"No," I says. "I just come from Katytown last night. Yes, I do live here -now--I forgot." - -"Really," he says. - -The car went so quick and smooth and even I could have sung because I -was in it. I'd never been in an automobile before. - -"Oh," I says, "ain't this just grand?" - -He looked over at me--he had a real white face and gold glasses and not -much of any hair showed. His clothes and his gloves was like new, and -some white cuffs peeked out. - -"I think so," he says. "I'm glad you do." - -"I meant the car," I says; and then I was afraid I'd made another -mistake, like I had with Mr. Ember, and that the car was what the little -young man had meant, too. - -But he was looking at me and laughing. - -"You're awfully sure what you mean, aren't you?" he says. "Are you -always that sure?" - -I kept thinking that he was Mr. Carney's nephew, and that Mr. Carney was -Mr. Ember's friend. I wanted to answer him like I knew Mr. Ember would -like. I'd answered him saucy when he first spoke to me, but that was -part because I was embarrassed. So I didn't say anything at all. I -didn't care whether he thought I was a country girl and a stick or not. -I wanted to act nice. - -"What made you run away from me yesterday?" he says. - -"Yesterday?" I ask' him. - -"At Gordon's studio," he says. "You don't mean to say you've forgotten -that I spoke to you when you stood in the doorway? And you ran away." - -I ask' him, before I meant to, "Was Mr. Ember there?" - -"Ember? No," he says; "he's never here. He works off in God-forsaken -spots. How are you going to like the city?" - -I looked down the shiny crowded street. All to once I saw it different. -Before that I'd been thinking he might be in every crowd. - -"It's awful lonesome here," I says. - -The policeman at the corner held up his hand, and we had to sit still -and wait. The little young man leaned on the wheel. - -"I hope you'll let me keep you from getting too lonesome," he says. - -I turned round on him. In another minute I'd have given him the thing I -always tried to say back, smart and quick. "When I'm that lonesome, I'll -go traveling back home again," was what come in my head. Instead of -that, all at once I wondered what the woman in the pinkish dress and hat -in the studio would have said. And I said what she did say: - -"I beg your pardon?" - -He laughed. "All right," he said, and started the car. "I do go pretty -fast. But, by jove, you know, you bowl a fellow over." - -I didn't say anything. I was thinking. Here was a man that had been with -all those people yesterday, the people that were the way I wanted to be. -He had always been with them. He had money, I thought--his clothes and -his cuffs, and then the car, looked as if he had. Probably he knew the -same things, almost, that Mr. Ember knew. He ought to be able to help -me. - -"Mr. Carney," I says, "have you been to see Europe, and Asia--and -volcanoes?" - -"Have I _what_?" says he. - -"Oh," I says, "traveled. Well, I guess you _have_ seen all the things -and places there are to see, haven't you?" - -"I've done a turn or two," he says. "Why? Are you interested in travel?" - -"Oh, yes," I says; "but--of course--" - -"Do you want to travel?" he says, turning to look at me. - -"Why," I says; "but I mean--" - -He stopped the car for the policeman at the next corner. - -"Because," he says, leaning on the wheel again, "if you want to travel, -you shall travel." - -It was almost what Mr. Ember had said. I was so thankful that now I knew -enough to answer nice, and not the awful way I had done to Mr. Ember. - -"I hope so," I says. "I do want to." - -I thought he was waiting for me to look round at him; but there was a -little dog in the automobile next to us, and I was watching that. - -"When?" he says. "When?" - -I says, "The gentleman blew his whistle." - -He laughed, and started the car, and I went on with what I'd been -wanting to say. - -"I was thinking," I says, "you've probably seen a whole lots of folks, -like I mean about. Well, I wanted to ask you: How do folks get -different? I mean, when they've started in being like me?" - -"What do you mean, child?" he says. - -"Get different," I says. "Get like those women there yesterday." - -"There wasn't a woman in the room yesterday who could hold a candle to -you, and you know it," he says. "Ever since yesterday I've been cursing -myself that I didn't follow you. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw -you come into that office this morning. Why in the world would you want -to be different?" - -I wanted to say, "Because I want something more than that in mine!" But -I didn't. I spoke just regular. - -"No," I says, "I mean true. I mean, learn things. Not school things, but -how to do. How do you start out? I mean, if it's me?" - -He kept looking at me, in between guiding his car. - -"So that's it!" he says. "And you want me to tell you?" - -"Yes!" I says. "More than anything else." He turned his car into a side -street, and run it slow. We was almost to the factory, I judged. I could -see smoke and big walls. - -"You can have whatever schooling or training there is in this town that -you want--or anywhere else," he says to me, "if you just say the word." - -It was just the way Mr. Ember had spoken, and Mr. Ember had meant that I -mustn't think there was nothing else for me only just what I'd got, if -I was willing to work for something more. So I see the little young man -must think as he did. - -"It's nice to think so," I says. - -"Do you mean it?" says he. - -"Why, of course," I says. "Is this the factory?" - -"You insist on trying for a job?" he says. - -"Why, yes," I says. "Don't you think I can get one?" - -"Sure you can get one," he says, "if I say the word." - -I wondered how he done what he done. It wasn't five minutes that I -waited in the stuffy dirty room by the gate into the factory yard, -before a man come and told me to go up to the next floor. - -When I crossed the yard the little young man come out of a door and he -says to me: - -"Good-by, and good luck to you." And he adds low, "I'll be waiting for -you at six o'clock at the door we came in." - -"Oh," I says, "don't you do that, Mr. Carney! Mr. Ember wouldn't want -me to trouble the other Mr. Carney or you either, not that much." - -He scowled. "This isn't exactly on his account, you know." - -And when he went off he didn't take off his hat to me, like Mr. Ember -had done, and like I thought city men always done. - -I kept thinking all that over while they started me in to work, punching -holes in a card. I thought about it so hard that when night came I asked -the forewoman if I could walk to the car with her. I thought I could -take the street-car, now I had a job. She was a big red woman. "That -don't work with me, you'll find," she says, and went past me. I guess -she didn't understand what I said. So I went out with some of the other -girls, and it just happened that I got out another door than the one I -went in, and on to the street-car. - -I bought a can of peas and four rolls and five cents butter, to -celebrate. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, when I went in, "scratch a match, and start the -cook stove up there on the wall! I've got a job for three dollars a -week, from eight till six. Didn't I tell you everything'd be easy?" - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -I counted up, and found if we were to have enough for room rent and -food, I couldn't spend any sixty cents a week for car-fare. So I left -home at seven every morning and walked to work. At night I was so tired -I took the car. Then we'd have supper on the gas-jet, and I'd try to -write; but almost always I was so sleepy I went right to bed. - -Mis' Bingy had got so she didn't cry so much. She didn't take much -comfort going out to walk, she was so afraid of Keddie finding her. - -"It's comfort enough not to feel I'm goin' to be murdered every night," -she says. "I'd just as lieve set here." - -After we'd been there three days, I wrote to Mother and to Luke. To -Mother I said: - - - "DEAR MOTHER: - - "We are well, and hope this finds you the same. I have got a job. - We are all right, and hope you are. I hope the boys are all right, - and Father. Mis' Bingy says for you to be sure to tell her the news - when you write. Mis' Bingy and the baby are well, and I am the - same. So good-by now. - - "COSMA." - - -I read it over, and wondered about it. I had never been away from home -before long enough to write a letter to them. And I couldn't think of -anything to say. It seemed to me I was a little girl in my letter. I -wondered if that was because they thought that was what I was. - -Then I wrote to Luke. You'd think that would have been harder, but it -was easier. I says: - - - "DEAR LUKE: - - "They told you, I guess, how I come off with Mis' Bingy. But, Luke, - I would of come anyway, if I could. I thought it was all right to - be your wife, but I want to see if there is anything else I would - rather do. So I'm not engaged to you any more. If I come back, and - if you are not married to somebody else, all right, if you still - want me by that time. But I don't think I'll come back for a long - time. I told you I didn't think I loved you, and you said I had to - marry somebody. But now I don't, Luke, because I got a job. Please - don't think hard of me. This was meant right, Luke. - - "COSMA." - - -I wrote another letter, too--just because it felt good to be writing it. -It said: - - - "DEAR MR. EMBER: - - "I want you to know I done as you said. I left home, and I left - Luke, and I'm going to see if there is anything in the world for me - to be that I can get to be. I've got a job, and I've got you to - thank for that. Mr. Carney's nephew got it for me. - - "There's something I want to say to you that's hard to say. I want - you to know that the walk that morning was the nicest thing that - ever happened to me. It made me see that the cheap me--the vulgar - me, like you said--wasn't the only me there is to me. Clear inside - is something that can be another me. I knew that before, in the - grove, and early in the morning, like I said. But I didn't think I - could ever let it out enough to be me. I didn't trust it, not till - you came. - - "And that's what makes me think I can be different, the way you - said to. I'd hate for you to think I was just the sassy girl I - acted that morning. There's something else I can't bear to have - you think--that's that I didn't know how different I acted at the - table from what you did. I did know. - - "I've got a job, and Mis' Bingy and the baby are here--I knocked - her husband down before I come because he was drunk and was going - to kill her, so we thought we better leave there. That was how we - come. But I guess I would have come anyway after I talked with you. - - "Your friend, - - "COSMA WAKELY." - - "P. S.--I say _Cosma_ all the time now." - - -I sealed it up and directed it, and slipped it in my book. I wouldn't -send it; but it was nice to write it. - -The second day I was in the factory, a girl come to me in the hall and -asked me if I'd go out with her to lunch. I said I had my roll and a -banana; but I'd walk along with her and eat 'em. She said that was what -she meant--she had some crackers and an apple. So we walked down the -block. Her name was Rose Everly. - -There was a place half-way along there where some policemen were always -sitting out, and when we went past there one of them spoke to her. She -stopped, and she gave me an introduction. - -"Miss Wakely," she says, "you meet Sergeant Ebbit." - -"Pleased to make your acquaintance," says he. "How's the strike coming -on?" - -"I don't know as I know anything about any strike," she says, throwing -up her head. - -"How about you?" he says to me. "You whinin' too?" - -I didn't know what he meant, and I guess he see I didn't. He laughed, -and brought us out a couple of oranges. - -"I'll be the first to run in the both of you, though," he says, "if you -start any nonsense." - -"What's he mean?" I says, when we went on. - -"He's new over here, or he wouldn't be so sassy, not to me," says Rose. -"Well, I brought you out here to put you wise." - -Then she told me, while we walked up and down and et our oranges. - -It seems there was things in the factory that I didn't have any notion -about. My own job was in the printing office, connected with the -factory. I was running a Gordon press, at slow speed, learning to feed -it right. At the first of the next week, I was going to be put on full -speed. We was to print from twelve thousand to fifteen thousand -envelopes a day, then; and I knew what that meant, from watching the -other machines. There was a time keeper over the full-speed machines, -and it was hurry, hurry, hurry, all day long. It was all right while I -was learning it, but I hated to think about making the same motion -twelve or fifteen thousand times every day. In our room there was sixty -or so. I used to notice the air, it smelled of some kind of gas and it -was full of paper dust. When they swept up they never wet the broom; and -when I asked the man if he didn't know enough to do that he swore at me. -It wasn't a nice place to work. - -But it seems there was other things that I didn't know about yet. There -was fines for everything, and dockings for most that many. We had to go -through the other factory to get out, and it seems they locked the doors -on us as soon as we got in, and of course that was bad if there'd be a -fire. Then there was things about the foreman; and there wasn't any -Saturday half-holiday. And it seems the girls had joined together and -asked for better things. And Rose wanted to know if I'd be one of them. - -"Sure," I says, "is there anybody that won't?" - -"Them that's afraid of their jobs," she says. "If we don't get what we -think we ought to have, we'll--quit. We're going to have a meeting -to-morrow night. Can you come, and will you talk?" - -"Sure I'll come," I says. "But I can't talk. I don't know enough." - -The sergeant says something else to us when we come back. - -"He'll likely be running us both in for getting a row made at us, -picketing, next week at this time," Rose said. At the door she took hold -of my arm. "Good for you!" she says. "We was all afraid of you when we -heard about Carney." - -"What do you mean?" I asked her. - -"'Bout Arthur Carney gettin' you your job," she says. - -"Yes," I says. "What's that got to do with it?" - -She laughed. "You baby!" she says. "Don't you know he owns the whole -outfit?" - -"The _factory_?" I says. - -He owned most of it, she told me. I kept going over that all the while I -fed my machine. And I kept going over what he'd said to me in his car. I -felt as if I didn't want to see him again, no matter how much he talked -about school; but I tried not to think that, because he was Mr. Carney's -nephew, and Mr. Carney was Mr. Ember's friend. - -I went to the meeting, as I said I would; but it was hard for me to make -much out of it. There was all these things ought to be changed in the -factory, and we knew it, and we thought we'd ought to have a little more -wages; I wanted more when I began on full speed, but I didn't think I -was going to get it. It seemed to me the thing to do was to ask to have -things changed, and, if they didn't do it, quit till they did change -them. But at the meeting I found that there was those that was afraid to -ask--just for fire-escapes and decent cleanliness and a few cents more a -week and extra pay for overtime. And then I found out something else, -that if they wouldn't give us these things and we did quit, there was -some of us that wouldn't agree to quit, and maybe others that would come -in and take our jobs, and put up with what we had been trying to make -better. When I got that through my head, I stood right up at the meeting -to ask a question. - -"They couldn't take our jobs if we stood out in front and tried to get -it into their heads what we was trying to do, could they?" I says. -"Ain't it just because they don't see what we're trying to do?" - -They all laughed, and the woman that was speaking--somebody from outside -the factory--says yes, she thought that was it, they didn't see what we -were trying to do. - -The next day was Sunday, and I could hardly wait. I was up early and out -while Mis' Bingy was still asleep. I hated to leave her all day, but it -seemed as if ever since I come to the city something out there was -calling me. I dunno where I went. I tramped for miles, and I spent -fifteen cents car-fare, besides transfers, but I didn't care. I had some -rolls in a bag, and I et them when I didn't show. And I looked and -looked. - -I found hundreds of folks, going off for all day, washed and dressed up -and with lunches and children, headed out in the country, I judged. Some -of them looked like Father and Mother and Mis' Bingy, and as if they -couldn't be any other way. I set on the car with them, and kind of see -_through_ them, and knew how they must snap each other up, home, when -they wasn't dressed up. I wondered what God wanted so many for, that -couldn't be different because it was too late. But some, and most of all -the children, looked as if they might have been most anybody, if they -were given a chance. I wondered how they could get the chance, and if -none of them tried. I wondered how I could try. I knew I'd never get it -in the factory. No matter if we got all the things we were asking for, -it was a dog's life--I knew that already. It wasn't much better than -Bert and Henny had, to the blast furnace. They got dirty, and had to -work straight twenty-four hours once every two weeks; but they made -their dollar-twenty a day, and not any of us done that. I kept trying to -think how to get started. - -At the end of one car line I got off and walked over to the river. There -was beautiful houses there--more beautiful than I had ever seen, even in -the pictures. I thought they must have awful big families, they had so -many up-stairs rooms. The grass looked combed and fluffed, much better -than the babies' hair around the factory. Somebody give an awful lot of -time to the flowers, and the river showed through the bushes. I liked -the nice curtains, and when automobiles went by I liked to look at the -ladies, they seemed so clean and tended. But I wondered why. - -I stood looking through the iron fence of a great big house when a -policeman come along. - -I says to him, before he could get passed, "I was wishing I knew the -names of the folks that live in there." - -He stopped like a wall that knew how to walk. "Well, missy," says he, -"and was ye thinkin' of buyin' it in?" - -"No," I says, "not with nothin' but you to watch it." And then I walked -on fast, and felt sick, sick at myself. Not one of them tended ladies in -the automobiles would have spoke like that. And Mr. Ember would have -hated me if he'd heard me say it. How did folks ever get over being -smart and quick, and be just regular? - -After a while, I come past a big church, and I went in. I never liked -church, because the minister had always kept at me to join and I didn't -think I was good enough. But I knew nobody would ever ask me to join -here. There was one reason, though, why I liked it, even home--everybody -acted nice, and like there was company. Once I said that, home, to the -table, when everybody was jawing, "Let's act like we was in church," I -said. But it made Father mad, and he couldn't understand that I hadn't -meant the being good part at all. I only meant the acting nice part. - -In the church it was like that, just as if everybody had company and was -on their good behavior. They set me in the gallery, and I could see the -whole crowd. The hats was grand. But the nicest was the colors in the -dresses and the windows and the flowers. It was funny, but something in -them made me hurt. And when the music burst out sudden, it hurt me so -that I dropped my bag of rolls so's to get down and pick them up, and -get my mind off my throat. I was thinking about it afterward, and it was -the first music I'd ever heard except our reed organ in church, and Lena -Curtsy's piano, and the movies, and the circus band. And even the circus -band had hurt my throat, too. - -I never knew a word the man said, I mean the minister. He didn't talk -anyhow--he just kept on about something, as if he was trying to make -somebody mean something they didn't mean. But I liked being there. -Everybody seemed like they ought to seem. I wondered if they was. I -couldn't seem to see _through_, like I could with the folks in the -street-car. It didn't seem possible that those folks down there ever -yipped out about anything to each other, and, anyway, what could they -have to yip out about? They were all clean and tended, too. Afterward I -stood in the door and watched them pour out, talking fast, and drive -off. I liked to see them close to, and hear the way they said their -words. It made a real nice morning, but I never heard a word about God. - -I et my rolls in the park, and I stayed there a good while. The sun or -the green or something made me feel good. I tried to look at the -animals, but I hated it in the smelly places, with the poor live things -in cages. When they tore around and couldn't sit still in any one place, -I thought it was just like Mother and Father and the boys and Mis' -Bingy, they all had to stay in a little place they didn't like, doing -what they didn't want to do. I didn't blame any of them for being ugly. -The more I looked at the animals, the better I understood. Then I -thought about Keddie Bingy--and he didn't have only that little place to -stay, with the bed in the kitchen, and he hated being a stone mason, I'd -heard him tell Father that. I didn't know but I could understand why he -got drunk. Then there was Joe, that had the Dew Drop Inn, and he had to -stay there in that place, and he couldn't get out; and, anyway, the -United States let him; and I begun to see how it was that Joe got Keddie -drunk all the time. So I was glad I went to see the animals, even if I -couldn't stay on account of it making me sick. - -Outside the park was the big hotels. I wondered if I could walk inside -and look at them, but when I got to the steps, I was afraid. Then I see -a big red house behind more iron fence, with an American flag overhead, -and I asked a little boy with some papers if that was where the mayor -lived. - -"Naw," says he. "Private party. I t'ought youse was their chum, the way -youse was rubberin'." - -I give him a penny for a paper and didn't say anything. And then I felt -better about the way I'd answered the policeman. It ain't so hard to act -nice if you can only think in time. - -I walked all the way home. I went in every church I come to, because it -was some place to go in. If I'd been shot out of a gun I couldn't have -told 'em apart, and I wondered how they could tell themselves. And -everywhere I went, there wasn't a soul to speak to. I tried to imagine -what if Mis' Bingy and the baby wasn't back there in the room, and there -was nobody to speak to when I got back. It felt funny, like once when I -got too far from shore in the pond, home. I couldn't help thinking about -Mr. Carney saying: "You must let me help you to keep from being too -lonesome." And if he'd come along just then with his shiny car, I don't -know but I'd have got in. - -It was the day after that that he come to the factory and asked for me. -I didn't think he'd do that, but I guess he didn't care what he done. -The foreman called me out, and when I got into his office there was Mr. -Arthur, and he left me there with him. Mr. Arthur's hat was on the back -of his head, and his light hair was flat down on his forehead, and his -light-colored eyes and eyebrows made me want to get away from him, even -if he was Mr. Ember's friend. - -"Child," he says to me, "why are you trying to avoid me? I've found a -place for you where you can go and learn as much as you want. I've been -waiting to tell you about it. Don't you trust me?" he says. - -I says, "I'd trust any friend of Mr. Ember's." - -"Well," he says, "anyhow, trust me. I'll call here for you to-night, and -you let me tell you what I've got planned for you." - -"I'm going to meet with some of the girls to-night, Mr. Carney," I says. - -"Cut that out," he says. "Come with me." - -I laughed at that. "You act like your way was the way things are," I -says. - -"I wish it were," he says, "I wish it were." - -"Listen, Mr. Carney," I says. "I've got a good job, and I like the -girls. It's a dirty, disagreeable place to work, and we'd ought to have -a good many things we haven't got," I says to him, "but I guess I'll -stick it out for a while. I couldn't come to-night, anyway." - -"I'll wait for you to-morrow night, then," he says. "We'll have a little -dinner somewhere, and a run in the car--" - -It was getting awful hard to remember to act nice, and I spilled over. - -"You got the ways of a hitching-post," I says; "but you ain't got the -tie-strap." And I walked out and left him there. - -Two nights he run his car down to the door where he'd found I come out. -Once I pretended not to see him, and run and caught a street-car. Once -he jumped out and walked along beside me, and the girls fell back. I -told him Mis' Bingy and I were going to have a banquet of wieners, fried -on the gas-jet, and I couldn't come. He put a note in my hand, he never -seemed to care what anybody thought, I noticed that about him. - -Mis' Bingy and I read the note, while the wieners were frying. - - - "Don't keep me waiting," it said. "I want to see you the glorious - creature you could be if you had the training you say you want. - Music, riding, whatever you ask for, you shall have it all, on my - honor. Don't I deserve a little more confidence from you? - - A. C." - - -Mis' Bingy rocked back and forth on the bed. - -"Cossy Wakely," she said, "it's my fault, it's my fault. I brung you. -Let's us go back, Cossy, right off. Let's us go back." - -"Oh, pshaw, Mis' Bingy!" I says, "I guess he means it right. We're -just--vulgar." - -"Oh, what a world," says Mis' Bingy. "Ain't there no place women can get -shed of men, with their drunkenness and their devilment?" - -I couldn't feel that way a bit. "I don't want to," I says. "I want to -find the other kind of men. There is them!" - -We had a nice supper, and then I wrote in this book. It was beginning to -be so I could hardly wait to get at it. I wondered if that was the way -Mr. Ember felt about his work. Then I thought about the factory, and -remembered that that was work, too. It didn't seem as if they ought to -have the same name. - -Next morning Rose went up the stairs with me. - -"You know you'll either have to quit your job or else give in, don't -you?" she says. - -I looked at her. - -"Are you sure?" I says, "I thought maybe my being afraid of him was just -being--vulgar." - -"You baby," she says. "It ain't your fault. Everybody understands. We -always tell the new pretty ones. But he brought you here--" - -I tried to think what to do, all that day, while I fed the press. I -could think well enough--the work was just one motion, one motion, one -motion, and I didn't have to think about that. But I knew in a little -while the rest of my head wouldn't think while I worked, and that I -should just stand there with the smell of the oil and the ink and the -gas and the paper dust, and the noise. I wondered what we was all doing -it for, just to earn money to keep breathing, and to supply Mr. Arthur -Carney with money for "little dinners somewhere," and the shiny car. It -didn't seem worth while, not for any of us. - -At noon Rose and I walked again, she wanted to tell me about a meeting -for that night. They'd heard that morning from Mr. Carney. He wouldn't -give in on one of the things, except to promise to unlock the doors -while we worked. "But he's promised that before," Rose says. "It don't -last. We're going to take the vote to-night on walking out." - -"What!" says Sergeant Ebbit, when we come by. "Ain't you two struck -yet?" - -"Don't you want to be?" says Rose, pretending to hit at him. I don't -know how any of us can act nice, with everybody joshing us so free. - -I promised to go to the meeting, and that meant that I couldn't go home -to supper, because it was so far to walk back. And when I come out the -door, there was Mr. Carney's car, and him walking toward me. I never -stopped a minute. I walked straight through the girls and got into his -car. He jumped in after me and banged the door. I heard the girls -titter. "You glorious thing," I heard him say; and I says, low: - -"I've got one errand, though. Will you take me there?" - -"Anywhere under heaven," he says. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -I showed Mr. Carney which way. We went past the girls, and round the -corner, and straight down the narrow street where we always walked -eating our lunch. I motioned where to stop. I jumped out. Sergeant Ebbit -was alone just inside the door of the police station. - -"Hello, Beauty," he says; "what can I do for you?" - -I says, "I want you to come out here and arrest a fresh young guy with a -car, that's been bothering me." - -He jumped up and followed. He was new there, as Rose had said, and then -he kind of liked me, too. I'd known that several days, and I was -depending on it now. He come hurrying, like I thought he would, and he -says, "I know them fool kids, and I'll learn 'em, if you say so." And -before he see Mr. Carney he blew his whistle. - -"That's him," I says, pointing to the little shiny car. - -It makes me laugh now to remember the sergeant's face. But another -policeman was coming, running. And folks stopped and stared. And I -slipped out the station door quick, and turned the corner and dodged -straight across the factory yard and took to my heels. - -It was after six o'clock, so the streets were alive. I walked along, -never noticing where I was going. I looked down the street. As far as I -could see there went the heads, men and women, bobbing along home. Half -of them, I thought, had just the same kind of box to live in that Mis' -Bingy and I had. Yet there they was, going to work every day by -clockwork, always thinking something good was going to come of it. I -tramped along with them. There was something good in the way our feet -all come down on the walk together. In spite of everything, I felt fine. -But I guess that was because I was young and well. Some of them that -passed me, their heads didn't stay up and their feet dragged. And they -didn't seem to know each other was there. If only they could have felt -the good feeling of marching together, it seemed to me they'd be less -tired. - -"They've got to find out different," I thought. "How can they?" - -The most of them crossed east on Broadway and under a covered place with -bells clanging. I saw the sign "Brooklyn Bridge," so I went up the steps -and out on the bridge, and I walked clear across it and back again. I'll -never forget that walk. I was looking at the others and looking at -them--the folks that was workers, like me. I seemed to know something -about them they didn't know. It seemed as if I had to do something. - -A bunch of little young girls passed me, all laughing. They seemed years -younger than I was. I thought of them--of the day they'd had in the -factory--bad air, noise, work that was dead before it was born, and -maybe a home where there was rows, or maybe just nobody at all; and -somebody like Arthur Carney coming to help them be a little less -lonesome. And then I faced it honest: Suppose he hadn't had flat hair -and light eyes. Suppose he had looked different, so that I would have -_wanted_ to go to dinner with him? - -I begun to walk fast, back to town. Across the bridge I went in a little -down-stairs place to get something to eat. I was thinking so hard I -never knew I'd ordered a quarter's worth till I got the bill. But I -didn't care much. Everything else seemed all of a sudden to matter so -much more. - -That night, when I walked into the meeting, they all stared. I s'pose -the word had got round that I'd gone with him. I whispered to Rose that -I wanted to say something, and she give me a chance right away. When I -got up on the platform and faced 'em, I wasn't afraid. I was glad. - -I told them that just because I had got to leave, I didn't want them to -think I was going to forget. And that they mustn't forget, either. "It -ain't caught me yet," I told 'em. "I'm new and from the country, and I -can see what it is that you're getting, like you can't see. And what I -say is this: Quit your hoping. Just know that until we get together -ourselves, nothing will come out of the factory except what we're -getting now. Quit your hoping, and help. That's my last word." - -And yet I guess you can't blame anybody for being afraid of being -hungry. I'd never been hungry yet, so I was brave. - -I didn't tell Mis' Bingy that night that I'd lost my job. I didn't tell -her till next morning when she woke up, scared that I was late. We went -out in the park with the baby. - -"We'll be all right, Mis' Bingy," I says, "don't you worry." - -I was sitting on the grass. And when I spoke so, I happened to see my -foot sticking from under my skirt. The whole half of my shoe sole had -come off, and was gone, and the nails was all showing. Ten days' rent it -would take to buy me another pair. - -Just now I tore out thirty pages of this book. And just now I read them -over. They made me sick to read them, not because of what was there, but -because of what wasn't there. It was the same thing over and over again -all that time. Hat factory, ribbon factory, braid factory, silk factory, -and ten weeks rolling stogies. Some places the girls cared, and was -trying to make others care to get things better. In others it was get -what you could, look your best, and marry the first man that asked you. - -Every place I went, I begun asking about the things that Rose had taught -me about--fines, and dockings, and fire safety, and the rest. Then I -talked to the girls. That was why I didn't "last." - -"You'll get used to things one of these days," says a forelady to me. - -"That's what I'm afraid of," I told her. - -But the worst was, there wasn't any fun. There wasn't anything to go to, -and, anyhow, I couldn't afford the car-fare back in the evening. - -Mis' Bingy had found a place where she could leave the baby a little -while every day, and she done some cleaning. We moved out of our first -room to one farther up that didn't cost so high. I got so I begun to -think ahead, nights. - -Then one night when I come in, the lady we rented of says a lady had -been there to see me; "A lady," she says, "that come in a automobile and -says her words as careful as if she was a-singin' in the church. She's -a-comin' back again." - -And when she come, she stood by the table and says: - -"Miss Wakely, I am Mis' Arthur Carney." - -"My land!" I says. It had never entered my head that he might have a -wife on top of everything else. - -"I have been hearing," she says, "of what you did some time ago. I mean -about--Mr. Carney. I have come to find you, because it seemed to me that -you must be a remarkable girl." - -"Oh, Mis' Carney," I says, "nobody needs to be remarkable to think of -getting _him_ arrested." - -And then I remembered something: "Yes, sir!" I says, "it was you! It -was you that was in the pinkish dress in Mr. Ember's house that day!" - -And I told her what she had been saying when she passed the door. But -all I was thinking was--she knew; him. She knew Mr. Ember, too! - -She talked to me a long time. She didn't ask me many questions--and I -didn't tell her much about me, but still in a little while we felt real -acquainted. And pretty soon she says: - -"I came really, you know, to see whether you had found another -position--after you left that one. I've had a good deal of a time -finding you out. What have you done since? What are you doing now?" - -I told her some of it. - -"And what do you want to do?" she says then. - -I don't know what give me the courage. It was just like something in me -said: "Tell her. Tell her. Tell her." And I said it. - -"Oh," I says, "I'd work my head off if I could go somewheres to school. -But I don't want to know just school things. I want to know more than -them...." - -"What do you want to know?" she says. - -It was funny how easy it was to talk to her. Father or Mother or Luke or -Mis' Bingy, that I'd known all my life, I couldn't have explained things -to like I could to her. But I think that was part because she didn't -need everything all said out in sentences, and then it was part because -I knew she wouldn't make a fuss at me when I got through. - -When she went away: "I'm going to look around a little," she says, "I'll -come back in a few days." - -"But, oh," I says, "you know, there's Mis' Bingy and the baby. I -couldn't do anything that'd take me away from her. I don't know why you -bother with me anyway," I says. - -She had the loveliest dignified way. "We owe you something, my husband -and I," she says. - -But of course I knew that that was just her manner of speaking, and that -her husband didn't know a thing about what she was doing, and that -probably it was one of those speeches that everybody keeps making, like -when Mis' Bingy talked, in the depot, of taking her baby away from "a -father's care." - -She went off in her automobile, and I stood on the step looking after -her. The very thought that there could be anybody in the world like her, -that would do what she'd done, made me feel like I understood the earth. -I told Mis' Bingy, and she sat a long time looking out the window with -her mouth open. - -"If Keddie had done that," she says, "I bet a quarter of a pound of tea, -I'd blame the girl." - -I'd have thought everybody would. We talked it over. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "maybe they's ways to be decent we don't even -_know_ about." - -She kep' her mouth open. "Then who's to blame if we don't act up to 'em, -I donno," she says, after a while. - -"I donno, too," I says. "It must be somebody, though." - -And we both thought it must be. - -The next day was Sunday, and Mis' Bingy and I done what we'd been going -to do for a long time. We walked up to the park, and inside the big -building where the pictures are. Mis' Bingy set on a bench and fed the -baby, while I wandered round. - -I guess you're supposed to feel nice and real awed when you first go to -that big place. I guess you're supposed to be glad you live in a city -where they're free to you. I thought I was going to have a good time. -But instead of that I kept getting madder and madder. Once I begun to -talk out loud, and I was afraid they'd put me out. It was when I come to -a big room full of statues, with one big white one that said under it -"Apollo." I'd never heard the name. I says to the man in the hall: - -"Can you tell me who that Apollo was--and why he's stuck up here?" - -"Catalogues twenty-five cents each, at the door," says the man. - -"Well," I says, "I ain't got the quarter to spare. But I thought mebbe -you knew." - -"He was the Greek god of beauty and song," he says, stiff. And the next -thing I knew I was standing there in front of the Greek god talking out -loud. And I says: - -"I'd like to twist the nose off your face, just because I've never heard -of you before--nor you--nor you--nor you--nor you. _Why_ ain't I never -heard of you?" - -I run for Mis' Bingy. - -"Mis' Bingy," I says, "are you ready to go?" - -She followed me without a word. Out on the steps she says, shaking: - -"Which was it--Keddie or Carney?" - -"It was neither," I says, "it was that smart white god in there, and all -the rest of 'em. Mis' Bingy! Folks _know_ about 'em. They know when they -go there, and they know about pictures. I heard 'em talking. What's the -reason we don't know?" - -"Go on!" says Mis' Bingy. "We ain't the kind of folks them things are -calculated for." - -"It's a lie!" I says. "It's a lie! I could almost like 'em now--only I -got so mad." - -I set down on a bench in the park, and cried. And I didn't care who -heard me. - -Mis' Bingy stood up, waiting for me, hushing the baby back and forth on -her hip. - -"I use' to feel like that when I was a girl," she says. "You'll get over -it." She kept saying that, several times. "You'll get over it, Cossy," -as if she thought it was some comfort. - -"That's what I'm afraid of," I says, after a while. - -We transferred at Eighth Street on the way down, because there was -something else I'd heard about and I hadn't ever seen yet. We walked -east through the square, under the arch, and I asked a policeman for -what I was looking for, and he showed me: The top story where the fire -had been in a factory. The girls had told me about it, and I told Mis' -Bingy, and we stood and looked. That was where they had jumped from. -That was where they had hit the sidewalk, a hundred and eighteen of -them, smashed or burned to death. - -"It might have been you, Cossy," Mis' Bingy says, staring up and -swinging the baby. - -"It _was_ me," I says. "I felt like it was me when I heard it--and I -feel like it was me now." - -But I didn't want to cry for that. While I looked I got still inside, -still and sick, and sure. I guess I felt like I was every factory girl -in in New York. The hundred and eighteen wasn't the worst off--I knew -that now. I wondered how many of them some Carney had chased, to "help -them be a little less lonesome." I wondered how many of them could talk -English. I wondered how many of them ever had it in their heads for a -minute that there was anything else for them only just what they had. -Then I thought about that Greek god of beauty and song. And them hundred -and eighteen and most of the other girls and Mis' Bingy and me never -even knew there was such a guy. - -Two days later Mis' Carney come back. The landlady had a book agent, -entertaining him in the parlor, so I had to take her right up to our -room. It was nice and clean, and Mis' Bingy always combed her hair and -changed her dress after dinner, just like she had at home afternoons, -when she'd got the dishes washed up. She was making lace by the window, -and the baby was on the floor. It was late, and we'd got a whole pie tin -of wieners sizzling over the gas-jet. - -"Mis' Carney, you meet Mis' Bingy," I says. But Mis' Carney hardly -looked at her. She bent right over the pillow that Mis' Bingy's work was -on. - -"Do you mean," Mis' Carney said, "that you are actually making the lace? -Here in New York?" - -"Yes, ma'am," Mis' Bingy says. "Ma taught me--in the old country." - -"Have you any of it made?" Mis' Carney says. - -Mis' Bingy opened the washstand drawer and took out what she had, tied -up in a pillow case. Mis' Carney set on the bed and took it in her -hands. After a long time she looked up at me, and her face was lovely. - -"Miss Wakely," she says, "I came to tell you what I have for you to -do--and I was a good deal bothered--about your friend, Mis' Bingy. But -it seems to me that she can earn considerably more than you can--with -her lace. I paid six dollars a yard for lace like this not a fortnight -ago." - -Then she turned to me. "You're going to a school right here in town," -she said; "I have arranged everything. And now Mis' Bingy is going to -find a larger room and make her lace." - -The wieners had burned black before any of us noticed. If ever you seen -the sky open back, I guess you know. - -Mis' Carney asked me to spend Friday to Monday with her, and then she -would take me over to the school. - -"Have I got to see your husband?" I says to her, direct. - -Her husband was in Europe, so that was how she could ask me. And Friday -afternoon she come for me. - -"We can take your trunk in the car, if it's a small one," she says. - -"I ain't even got a satchel," I told her. "My other dress and things are -in this here." - -Mis' Bingy was hanging over the bannister post, and the landlady with -her. - -"Don't you go and forget me, Cossy," says Mis' Bingy, crying. - -The landlady used her face all the time like a strong light was in her -eyes. - -"She'll forget you, all right," she says. "I got two daughters -somewheres that I never hear a word out of. Best say good-by and leave -it go at that." - -I always wanted everybody to tell the truth, but that woman sort of -undressed it, and then told it. And it made a little hush, there in the -hall. - -Mis' Carney's house was big and still. She took me to a bedroom at the -back, looking out on a square garden. The furniture was white, with -rose-buds on, and there were gray and pink rugs on the floor. The light -colored rugs seemed so wonderful--just as if it didn't matter if they -did get soiled, no more than towels. Nor not so much so. On the wall was -a little picture of a boat with a bright-colored sail, on a real blue -sky. The minute I see it, the whole thing kind of come over me. And I -begun to cry. - -"Oh, Mis' Carney," I says, "we got a picture in the parlor, home. But it -don't look like that." - -"Is that what you are crying for?" she asked. - -"No," I says, "I don't think so. I was thinking about the bed. Mother -and I looked at one in a show-window, once." - -I remembered how Mother had stood and looked at it, all made up clean -and pretty, even after I was tired and wanted to go on. - -Saturday morning we went shopping. I'd never been down-town before when -I wasn't walking fast to get somewheres. This was the first time I had -ever _looked_. Everywhere there were people, hurrying and thinking. - -"Look in this window, Cosma," Mis' Carney said as we went in a store. -"How would you like that shade?" - -But the man that was fixing the things looked like a man that sold -mackintoshes at the county fair, and I watched him. - -"You ought to have a longish coat," she says, "you're so tall." - -Just then I saw a woman with gray hair, and I stood staring at her, -wondering if there was anybody's mother that looked as grand as her. - -"Cosma," Mis' Carney said, "look at the things, please. Never mind the -people." - -"Never mind the people." I knew then that they were all I cared about. -It wasn't so much the folks shopping that I saw--it was the girls, the -whole army of girls that was waiting on them. When you get to look at -the shops that way, then you know more about them than you did before. -But the folks on the sidewalks kind of got me too. Out in the car I says -to Mis' Carney: - -"I know! It ain't just school or clothes or you that makes me feel good. -It's something else. It's because I ain't worrying over the rent!" - -I saw the folks on the sidewalks, all hurrying and thinking. I knew them -all now. Half of them were worrying just the way I had been, just the -way Rose was, just the way all the girls did. I felt bad for them. I -wanted to take them all off with me, to school or somewheres. - -Then come the evening I'll never forget. Mis' Carney and I had dinner by -ourselves in a little glass room just off the big dining-room; and -afterward we went into the library. She was showing me some books, when -a bell rung, somewheres off in the house, and a maid come with a card. - -"Show him to the drawing-room," Mis' Carney said, and gave me a lot more -books and left me. And then I heard his voice in the next room where -she'd gone. I knew--the minute I heard him speak I knew. I dropped my -books and run to the curtains and stood where I could see. - -And Mr. Ember was standing by the table, with his face turned toward me, -looking just like I'd seen him last, there in Twiney's pasture. One hand -was resting on the table and the other was pushing his hair back from -his forehead, two, three times, kind of as if he was tired. And when I -see him, from my head to my feet I begun to tremble. I'd felt like that -once or twice before--once when the team got scared and begun to back -off the bridge. - -"I'm in town for the rest of the winter," he was saying. "I've a few -lectures to pull off--and a lot of proof to keep me busy. What have you -been doing with yourself?" - -Then my heart beat harder. What if she told him about me? And one minute -I was sick with being afraid she would, and next minute I was wild for -fear she wouldn't. I didn't want to see him. I'd said I wasn't going to -see him till I could meet him sometime when I was the way I was going to -be. But I'd have come pretty near to giving up my whole chance of ever -being anything, just to have his hands shut over mine and to hear him -say my name again. - -She didn't tell him, Mrs. Carney wasn't the telling kind. In a few -minutes they begun to talk of other things--Europe and Washington and -theaters. And while I stood there, looking at him and looking, it came -over me that to be listening there wouldn't be the way Mrs. Carney would -act, nor the way he'd meant me to act. So I looked at him once, hard -enough to last, the best a look can last, and then I run away up to my -room and locked the door. I stood in the middle of the floor and kind of -flung myself on to something or somebody in the air, that it seemed to -me _must_ have been listening to me. - -"Make me like I ain't," I says. "Make me different! Make me -different--YOU!" - -When I heard the door shut, I went back down-stairs. I wanted to be the -next one to talk to her after he had. She was in the library, putting -the books back. And her face was shining like I'd never seen it. - -"Oh, Cosma," she said, "some people make you feel as if it's a good -world!" - -"It is," I says, "while they're around." - -"Yes," she says, "it is--while they're around." - -That was all she said. Pretty soon she went back in the drawing-room, -and I followed her so's to be where he had been. I'd been going to sit -down in the chair where he had sat, but she sat down there. So I stood -by the table. And I was glad it happened that neither of us said -anything for quite a while. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -The school was three great buildings a little way from Mrs. Carney's -house. I had never dreamed of anything so grand as those rooms seemed to -me. What I couldn't get over was the padded carpets that you didn't make -a sound when you walked on. The furniture was big pieces, all carved and -hard to dust; and lights that didn't show was burning in the inside -rooms. There was great vases, as tall as I, and pictures as big as the -ceiling of Mrs. Bingy's and my whole room. - -The first days at that school are the kind of nightmare that it hurts to -remember even in the daytime. I begun by feeling so grand. By the second -meal I was wretched. By the time the first evening was half over and the -dancing in the gymnasium, I was sick. School wasn't the way I thought it -was. - -If only they'd taken me out and ducked me, or buried me, or left me on -the roof all night every night. But the ways they had were like pouring -vinegar in a skinned place in my heart. I ain't going to talk about it! - -And yet I never minded their laughing, if only they looked at me when -they laughed. But when they looked at each other and laughed, that -killed me. - -I'd been at the school about six months when one afternoon I was coming -across the field that everybody called the "campus." I'd never called it -that yet--it sounded like putting on. I met a lot of them coming down -from their classes. I used to begin looking at them when they were way -ahead, hoping there was somebody I knew and could speak to. I liked to -speak to them. I'd had an introduction to most of them; but they didn't -always remember me. When they did remember, they didn't always speak. -Some of them done it on purpose. But always I knew which was such. That -afternoon so many of them didn't speak to me that all of a sudden I felt -crazy to get away from them all, off somewhere by myself. I run down -the hill back of the main building. A stone wall went along by the road. -The wall was pretty high, but I put my hands on it the way I used to at -home, and I jumped up on it with my head in some branches. And I says -out loud: - -"I know how Keddie Bingy used to feel when he got drunk." - -"My word!" said somebody. "And how did he feel?" - -I looked down, and there was an automobile drawn up by the wall and a -man in it, rolling a cigarette. - -"Don't you know?" I says. - -"I don't know but I do," says he. "For example, I've been sitting here -one-half hour waiting for my sister. Do I feel the way you mean?" - -"Nothing like," I says, and turned to jump down again. - -"Don't let me drive you away," he says; "I don't mean to bother you. I -beg your pardon like anything." - -"It's all right," I said; "I was going. I didn't want to sit up here. I -don't know what I got up here for, anyway." - -I picked up my books, and he spoke again. - -"If you're really going," he said, "I wonder if I could send a message -by you?" - -"Sure thing," I says. - -"Do you know Antoinette Massy?" he asked. - -"I know her when I see her," I said; "I never spoke to her." - -"She's in the tennis court over there--or she said she'd be," he went -on. "Would you mind telling her that her brother has been sitting here -like an image for thirty-six minutes--up to now? And that in five -minutes he won't be here any more?" - -"Oh," I says, "Miss Massy! She went up to Mann Hall to rehearse, half an -hour ago. They never get through till dinner time." - -"Gad!" he said; "it takes a man's sister to put him in his true light." -He done something to the car, and then looked at me. "Would--would you -care to come for a little spin?" he asked. - -[Illustration: "Would you care to come for a little spin?"] - -"I'd care like everything," I says; "but I can't go." - -"No?" he says. "Yes, you can!" - -"I'm not going," I says. "Thanks, though." - -"Would you mind telling me why not?" he says. "Since you say you want -to, you know." - -I couldn't think of anything but the truth. - -"I'm trying to act as nice as I can," I says, "since I've been to this -school. And I guess it's nicer not to go with you." - -His face was pleasant when he kept on looking at me, though he was -laughing at me, too. - -"Look here, then," he said, "will you go with my sister and me some day? -As a favor to me, you know--so you'll get her here on time." - -"Oh," I says, "I'd love to!" - -"Done," he said. "Tell me your name, and I'll tell her we've got an -engagement with her." - -When he'd gone I jumped down from the wall and ran pell-mell up the -hill. Before I knew it, I was humming. Ain't it the funniest thing how -one little bit of a nice happening from somebody makes you all over like -new? - -Two days afterward I was leaving the dining-room when I saw Miss -Antoinette Massy coming toward me. My heart begun to beat. She was so -beautiful and dressed like a dream. She's always seemed to me somebody -far off, and different--like somebody that had died and been born again -from the way I was. - -"You're Cosma Wakely, aren't you?" she said. "My brother told me about -meeting you." I couldn't think of a thing to say. I just kept thinking -how the lace of her waist looked as if it hadn't ever been worn before; -and I noticed her pretty, rosy, shining nails. "I wondered if you -wouldn't go for a motor ride with my brother, Gerald, and myself, -to-morrow afternoon?" - -"Oh," I says, "I could, like anything." - -And all that night when I woke up, I kept thinking what was going to -happen, and it was in my head like, something saying something. It -wasn't so much for the ride--it was that they'd been the way they'd been -to me. That was it. - -I put on my best dress and my best shoes and my other hat; and when I -met Miss Massy in the parlor I see right off that I was dressed up too -much. She had on a sweater and a little cap. I always noticed that about -me--I dressed up when I'd ought not to, and times when I didn't -everybody else was always dressed up. - -Her brother came in, and I hadn't sensed before how good-looking he was. -If ever he had come to Katytown, Lena Curtsy would have met him before -he got half-way from the depot to the post-office. - -Up to then, this was my most wonderful school-day. But it wasn't the -ride. It was because they were both being to me the way they were. - -We stopped at a little road-house for tea. I hated tea, and when they -asked me to have tea, I said so. I said I'd select pop. Going back, it -was the surprise of my school life that far when Antoinette Massy asked -me if I would go home with her at the end of the week. - -"Oh," I says, "I can't! I can't!" - -"Do come," she says; "my brother will run us down. You can take your -work with you." - -"Oh," I says, "it isn't that. I guess you don't understand"--I thought I -ought to tell her just the truth--"I can't act the way you're used to, -I'm afraid," I said. "I'm learning--but I had a lot to know." - -She laughed, and made me go. I wondered why. But I couldn't help going. -I thought of all the mistakes I'd make--but then, I'd learn something, -too. "Just be yourself," Miss Antoinette said. And I said, "Myself -buttered a whole slice of bread and bit it for a week before I noticed -that the rest didn't." And when she said, "Yourself did not. You got -that from other people in the first place," I asked her, "Then, what -_is_ myself?" And she says, "That's what we're at school to find out!" - -It was in a big house on the Hudson that the Massys lived. I saw some -glass houses for flowers. When the door was opened I saw a lot more -flowers and a stained glass window and a big hall fire. - -"Oh!" I says. "Can farm-houses be like that?" - -"What does she mean?" says Mrs. Massy, and shook hands with me. I wanted -to laugh when I looked at her. She was little and thick everywhere, and -she had on a good many things, and she looked so anxious! It didn't seem -as if there was enough things in all the world to make anybody look so -anxious about them. - -Dinner was at half past seven. In Katytown supper is all over by half -past six, and at half past seven the post-office is shut. I had a little -light cloth dress, and I put that on; and then I just set down and -looked around my room. There was a big bed with a kind of a flowered -umbrella over it with lace hanging down; and a little low dressing -table, all white and glass, and my own bath showed through the open -door. And looking around that room and remembering how the house was, I -thought: - -"Oh, if Mother could have had things fixed up a little, maybe she could -have been different herself. Maybe then she'd have been Mother instead -of 'Ma' from the beginning." - -In the drawing-room were Mrs. Massy and Mr. Gerald, her looking like a -little, fat, bright-colored ball, and him like a man on some -stage--better than any man I'd seen in the Katytown opera-house -attractions, even. The dining-room was lovely, and the table was like a -long wide puzzle. I watched Miss Antoinette, and I done like her, word -for word, food for food, tool for tool. They talked more about nothing -than anybody I'd ever heard. Mrs. Massy would take the most innocent -little remark, and worry it like a terrier, and run off with the pieces, -making a new remark of each one. She had things enough around her neck -to choke her if they'd all got to going. There were two guests, enormous -women with lovely velvet belts for waists. They talked in bursts and -gushes and up on their high tiptoes--I can't explain it. It was like -another language, all irregular. I just kept still, and ate, and one or -two things I couldn't comprehend I didn't take any of. Everything would -have been all right if only one of the guests hadn't thought of -something funny to tell. - -"Elwell sounded the horn right in the midst of a group of factory girls -to-night," she said. "We were in a tearing hurry and we didn't see them. -And one of them stood still, right in the road, and she said, 'You go -round me.' Why, she might have been killed! and then we should have been -arrested. Elwell had all he could do to swing the car." - -All of a sudden come to me the picture of those girls--the girls I knew, -tracking home at night, dog-tired, dead-tired, from ten hours on their -feet and going home to what they was going home to. I saw 'em with my -heart--Rose and all the rest that I knew and that I didn't know. And the -table I was to, and the lights and the glass, blurred off. Something in -my head did something. I had just sense enough not to say anything, for -I knew I couldn't say enough, or say it right so's I could make it mean -anything. But I shoved back my chair, and I walked out the door. - -In the hall I ran. I got the front door open, and I got out on the -porch. I wanted to be away from there. What right did I have to be -there, anyhow? And while I stood there with the wind biting down on me, -all of a sudden it wasn't only Rose and Nettie and the girls I saw, but -it was Mother, too--Mother when I'd used to call her "Ma." - -Mr. Gerald was by me in a minute. - -"Miss Cosma," he said, "what is it?" - -He took my arm--in that wonderful, taking-care way that is so dear in a -man, when it is--and he drew me back into the vestibule. - -"If she speaks like that about those girls again," I said, "I'll throw -my glass of water at her." - -I hated him for what he said. What he said was: - -"By jove! You are magnificent!" - -It took all the strength out of me. "None of you see it," I said. "I -don't know what I'm here for. I don't belong here. I belong out there in -the road with those girls that the car plowed through." - -"I don't know about that," he said. "Why don't you stay here and teach -me something about them? I don't even know what you mean." - -He put me in a chair by the fire, and they sent me some coffee there. I -heard him explaining that I felt a little faint. I wanted to yell, "It's -a lie." I knew, then, that I was a savage--all the pretty little smooth -things they used to cover up with, I wanted to rip up and throw at all -of them. - -"I hate it here," I thought. "I hate the factory. I hate home. I hate -Luke...." - -That was nearly everything that I knew; and I hated them all. Was it me -that everything was wrong with, I wondered? I was looking down at Mr. -Gerald's hands that had moved so dainty and used-to-things all the while -he was eating. That made me think of Mr. Ember's hands when he was -eating that morning at Joe's. These folks all did things like Mr. Ember. -And I'd got to stay there till I knew how to do them, too. But from that -minute I began to wonder why folks that can do things so dainty don't -always live up to it in other ways, like it seemed to me he did. And -then I got to thinking about his patience with me, so by the time the -rest came in from the dining-room I was all still again. - -When the guests had gone I was standing by some long curtains when Miss -Antoinette walked over to me. "You lovely thing," she said. "By that -rose curtain you are stunning. Stand still, dear. Gerald, look." - -But I didn't think much about him; and my eyes brimmed up. - -"You called me 'dear,'" I says. "You're about the first one." - -She put her arm around me, and then it come out. Her brother had one -wing of the ground floor all to himself. It was a studio. He painted. -And he wanted to paint me. There was only one thing I thought about. - -"I'll be glad to do that," I says, "if you'll both teach me some of the -things you see I don't know--talking, eating, everything." - -The way they hesitated was so nice for my feelings it was like having my -first lesson then. - -I went down there the whole spring. And there, and to the school, -little by little I learned things. I knew it--I could almost feel it. I -didn't always know what I'd learned, but I knew that it was changing me. -I don't know any better feeling. It's more fun than making a garden. -It's more fun than watching puppies grow. It was almost as much fun as -writing my book. And back of it all was the great big sense, shining and -shining, that I was getting more the way I wanted to be, that I _had_ to -be, if ever I was to see _him_ again. John Ember was in my life all the -time, like somebody saying something. - -Pretty soon Miss Antoinette's maid put my hair up a different way. And -Miss Antoinette had a nice gown of hers altered for me. I'll never -forget the night I first put on that lace dress. We'd motored out as -usual, on a Friday in May, when I'd been going there most three months. -They were going to have a few people for dinner. I'd had a peep at the -table, that looked like a banquet, and I thought: "Not a thing on it, -Cosma Wakely, that you don't know how to use right. Wouldn't Katytown -stick out its eyes?" And when Miss Antoinette's maid put the dress on -me, I most jumped. I wouldn't have believed it was me. - -I remember I come out of my room, loving the way the lace felt all -around me. The hall was lighted bright down-stairs, and, beyond, some -folks were just coming into the vestibule, in lovely colored cloaks. And -all of a sudden I thought: - -"Oh--living is something different from what I always thought! And I -must be one of the ones that's intended to know about it!" - -It was a wonderful, grand feeling; and it was surprising what confidence -it gave me. At the foot of the stairs, one of the maids knocked against -me with a big branched candlestick she was carrying. - -"You should be more careful!" I says to her, sharp. And I couldn't help -feeling like a great lady when she apologized, scared. - -In the drawing-room the first person I walked into was Mr. Gerald. I'd -been seeing him almost every week--usually he and Miss Antoinette drove -me down on Friday nights. But I'd never seen him quite like this. - -"By jove! By jove!" he said, and bowed over my hand just the way I'd -seen him do to other women. "Oh, Cosma!" - -He'd never called me that before. I liked his saying it, and saying it -that way. When I went to meet the rest, and knew he was watching me and -that he liked the way I looked--instead of being embarrassed I thought -it was fun. - -And when it was Mr. Gerald that took me down, and we all went into that -beautiful room, and to the dinner table that I wasn't afraid of--I can't -explain it, but everything I'd ever done before seemed a long way off -and I didn't want to bother remembering. - -It was a happy two hours. After a while I began to want to say little -things, and I found I could say them so nobody looked surprised, or -glanced at anybody else after I had spoken. That was a wonderful thing, -when I first noticed that they didn't glance at each other when I said -anything. I saw I could say the truth right out, if I only laughed about -it a little bit, and they'd call it "quaint," and laugh too, instead of -thinking I was "bad form." There was quite an old man on my right, and I -liked that. I always got along better with them than the middle ones -that wanted to talk about themselves. - -Just as soon as the men came up-stairs, Mr. Gerald came where I was. He -wanted me to go down the rooms to see a "Chartron." I thought it was -some kind of furniture; but when I got there it was a picture of Miss -Antoinette, and we sat down with our backs to it. - -"How are you?" Mr. Gerald said--his voice was kind of like he kept boxes -of them and opened one special for you. "Tell me about yourself." - -"I feel," I said, "as if I'd been sitting on the edge of things all my -life, and I'd just jumped over in. It's a pity you never were born -again. You can't tell how it feels." - -"Yes, I was," he said, "I've been born again." - -"Well, didn't it make you want to forget everything that had happened -to you before?" I said. - -"It does," said Mr. Gerald; "and I have. You know, don't you, that I -count time now from the day I met you?" - -"Great guns!" I said. - -It took me off my feet so that I didn't remember to say "My word," like -they'd told me. I sat and stared at him. - -He laughed at me. "You wonder!" he said. "They'll never spoil you, after -all. Cosma,--couldn't you? Couldn't you?" - -"Why, Mr. Gerald," I says, "I'd as soon think of loving the president." - -"Don't bother about him," he says. "Love me." - -Some more folks came in then to see the Chartron, and I never saw him -any more that night till they were leaving. Then he told me Miss -Antoinette was going back on Sunday, but he'd run me in town on Monday -morning, if I'd go. I said I'd go. - -It was raining that Monday morning, and everything smelled sort of -old-fashioned and nice, and the rain beat in our faces. - -"Cosma," he said, "don't keep me waiting." - -"Why not?" I said. I can see just the way the road went stretching in -front of us. I looked at it, and I thought _why not_, _why not_.... I'd -been saved from Katytown. I'd been saved from Luke, from Mr. Carney, -from the factory. I'd been given my school, and now this chance. _Why -not?_ - -"Because I love you so much that it isn't fair to me," he said. - -And he thought he was answering what I had said, but instead he was -really answering what I had thought. - -"You like your new life, don't you?" he said. "Why not have it all the -time, then? And if you love me, even a little, I can make you happy--I -know I can." - -"And could I make you happy?" I said. - -"Gad!" said Mr. Gerald. - -The road was empty in the soft beating rain. With the slow and perfectly -sure way he did everything he ran the car to the curb and turned to me. - -"Cosma," he said. - -I looked at him. Just a word of mine, and my whole life would be -settled, to be lived with him, and with all that I began to suspect I -was meant to have. I kept looking at him. I felt a good deal the way I -had felt when I looked at a long-distance telephone and knew, with a -word, I could talk a thousand miles. And I didn't feel much more. - -He took me in his arms and drew my wet face close to his, that was warm, -as his lips were warm. - -"I want you for my wife," he said. - -It seemed so wonderful that he should love me that I thought mostly -about that, and not about whether I loved him at all. I sat still and -said: - -"I don't see how you can love me. There's so much I've got to learn yet, -before I'm like the ones you know." - -"You're adorable," he said; "you're glorious. I love you. I want you -with me always.... Cosma! Say maybe. Say just that!" - -So then I did the thing so many girls had done before me and will do -after me: - -"Well, then," I said, "maybe." - -He frightened me, he was so glad. I felt left out. I wished that I was -glad like that. - -But it was surprising how much more confidence I had in myself after I -knew that a man like Mr. Gerald loved me. - -"That's because," I said to me, "women have counted only when men have -loved them." - -And I thought that had ought to be different. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -One day toward spring I went down to see Mrs. Bingy. She had three women -in her room every day, making the lace. She had regular customers from -the shops. When I went in she was in a good black dress and was sitting -holding the baby, that was beginning now to talk. - -"Oh, Cossy," she says, "look what I got," and pointed to some papers. - -"Katytown papers," I said. "I don't suppose there's a soul there outside -the family that I care whether I ever see again or not." - -"Why, Cossy," she said, "there's Lena--" - -"Lena Curtsy!" I said. "Good heavens! Mrs. Bingy, I wish you wouldn't -call me 'Cossy.'" - -"I always do forget the Cosma," she said humbly; "I'll try to remember -better. But Lena Curtsy--Cossy, she's married to Luke." - -"Good for them," I said; "and I suppose they had a charivari that woke -the cemetery. That's Katytown." - -"They've gone to housekeeping to Luke's father's," said Mrs. Bingy. -"Don't you want to read about it, Cossy--Cosma?" - -I took the paper. "Mrs. Bingy," I said, "I came down to show you my new -dress." - -"It's a beauty," she said. "I noticed it first thing when I see you. It -must be all-silk." She examined it with careful fingers. "I made this of -mine myself," she added, proud. - -"Do you know anything about Keddie?" I asked her. - -She begun to cry. "That's all that's the matter," she says. "The first -money I earned I sent him enough to go and take the cure. The letter -come back to me, marked that they couldn't find him. So I took the baby -and run down to Katytown, and, sure enough, the house was rented to -strangers and not a stick of furniture left in it. He'd sold it all off -and went West. And me with the money to give him the cure, when it's too -late. I ought," she says, "never to have left him." - -"Mrs. Bingy," I says, "do you honestly believe that?" - -"No," says she, "I don't. But it's a terrible thing to own up to. I saw -your Ma in Katytown." - -"Oh!" I says. "How is she? She don't write. She just wrote once and put -in a dollar chicken money." - -"They think you'll be back yet," Mrs. Bingy says. "Your Pa says, 'Her -place is here to home with her Ma. Her Ma's getting along in years now, -and she needs her to home, and she'd ought to come back.'" - -"Why don't the boys come back?" I says. - -"Oh, they're working," Mrs. Bingy says, surprised. - -"So am I," I says. "Mrs. Bingy! Do you think I ought to go back?" - -She leaned forward and spoke it behind her hand. - -"No," she says, "I don't. But it's a terrible thing to own up to." - -I went back to the school that Monday morning, wondering why it seems -hard to own up to so many things that's true. If they're true, the -least you can do is to own up to them, ain't it? - -It was some time before this that I'd made up my mind to try for the -Savage Prize. The Savage Prize was open to the whole school, and it was -for the best oration given at a contest the week before commencement. I -was pretty good at what I called speaking pieces, and what they called -"vocational expression." And I had some things in my head that I wanted -to write about. I'd decided to write on "Growing," and I meant by that -just getting different from what you were, that my head was so full of. -I had a good deal to say, beginning with that white god that I knew all -about now. But Rose Everly didn't know. And I wondered why. - -One day the principal called me in her office. - -"Miss Spot has showed me the rough draft of your oration," she said. "It -is admirable, Cosma. But I should not emphasize unduly the painful fact -that there are many to whom growth is denied. Dwell on the inspiring -features of the subject. Let it bring out chiefly sweetness and light." - -"But--" I says. - -"That will do, Cosma. Thank you," said the principal. - -While I was working on the Savage Prize oration, trying to make it "all -sweetness and light," Antoinette sent me a note, in history class. - - - "Jolly larks!" she said, "Friday. Dinner at the Dudleys' studio. - Opera in the Dudleys' box. Our house for Sunday. Look your best. - Baddy Dudley is back--You remember about him?" - - -Mr. Gerald had been promising to take us to the Dudleys' studio. Mr. -Dudley's brother, "Baddy," spending that winter in Italy, had had a -kodak picture of Antoinette and me and had sent me messages through -Gerald. - -On the night of the party I was dressing in my room at the school when a -maid came up with a message. A girl was down-stairs to see me. My lace -gown and a white cloak that Antoinette had loaned me were spread on the -bed. I was just finishing my hair and tying in it a gold rose of -Antoinette's when my visitor came in. It was Rose Everly. - -I'll never forget how Rose looked. She had on a little tight brown -jacket and a woolen cap. Her skirt was wet and her boots were muddy. She -stood winking in the light, and panting a little. - -"My!" she said, "you live high up, don't you?" Then she stood staring at -me. "Cosma," she said, "how beautiful!" - -She dropped into a chair. In that first thing she said she had been the -old Rose. Then she got still and shy, and sat openly looking at my -clothes. She was not more than twenty-one, and the factory life had not -told on her too much. Yet some of the life seemed to have gone out of -her. She talked as if not all of her was there. She sat quietly and she -looked as if she were resting all over. But her eyes were bright and -interested as she looked at my dress. - -I said, "People have been good to me, Rose. They gave me these." - -"You're different, too," she said, looking hard at me. "You talk -different, too. Oh, dear. I bet you won't do it!" - -"Tell me what it is," I said, and put the lace dress over my head. - -"It's the first meeting since the fire," Rose said. "I wanted you -there." - -I asked her what fire, and her eyes got big. - -"Didn't you know," she said, "about the fire in our factory? Didn't you -know the doors were locked again, and five of us burned alive?" - -[Illustration: "Didn't you know about the fire in our factory?"] - -I hadn't known. That seemed to me so awful. There I was, fed and clothed -and not worrying about rent, and here this thing had happened, and I nor -none of us hadn't even heard of it. Miss Manners and Miss Spot didn't -like us to read the newspapers too much. - -"It broke out in the pressroom," Rose said. "That girl that was feeding -your old press--they never even found her." - -"Oh, Rose," I said. "Rose, Rose!" And when I could I asked her what it -was that she had come wanting me to do. - -She made a little tired motion. "It ain't only the fire," she said. -"Things have got worse with us. We've got three times the fines. Since -they've stopped locking the doors, they make us be searched every night, -and the new forewoman--she's fierce. And we can't get the girls -interested. They say it ain't no use to try. We want to try to have one -more meeting to show 'em there is some use. And we thought, mebbe--we -knew you could make 'em see, Cosma. If you'd come and talk to 'em." - -"When would it be?" I asked her. - -"They've called the meeting for to-morrow night," she told me. - -"To-morrow!" I said. "Oh, Rose--no, then I can't. I'm going out of town -to-night, for two days, up the Hudson...." - -I stopped. She got up and came to fasten my sash for me. - -"I thought mebbe you couldn't," she said; "but it was worth trying." - -"Have it next week," I said. "Have the meeting then." - -But they had postponed once--some one, Rose said, had "peached" to the -forewoman. For to-morrow night the men had loaned them a hall. She bent -to my sash. I could see her in my glass. I was ashamed. - -She told me what had come to the girls--marriage, promotion, disgrace. -Two of them had disappeared. - -"I'm so sorry," I kept on saying. Then the maid came to tell me the -motor was there. I put on my cloak with the fur and the bright lining. -It had made me feel magnificent and happy. With Rose there, I felt all -different. - -She slipped away and went out in the dark. The light was on in the -limousine. Mr. Gerald came running up the steps for me. Antoinette was -there already. I went down and got in. There was nothing else to do. - -The drive curved back around the dormitory, and so to the street again. -As we came out on the roadway, we passed Rose, walking. - -I thought: "She's walking till the street-car comes." But I knew it was -far more likely that she was walking all the way to her room. - -At the Dudleys' studio I forgot Rose for a little while. It was a great -dark room with bright colors and dim lamps. Mrs. Dudley had on a dress -of leopard skins, with a pointed crown on her head. There were twenty or -more there, and among them "Baddy" Dudley. From the minute I came in the -room he came and sat beside me. He was big and ugly, but there was -something about him that made you forget all the other men in the room. - -It was a wonderful dinner. When coffee came, the lights flashed up, a -curtain was lifted, and Mrs. Dudley danced. The lights rose and fell as -she danced, and with them the music. Every one broke into a low humming -with the music. Then she sank down, and the lights went out, and we sat -in the dark until she came back to dance again. "I shall never be -happy," said Mr. Dudley as we sat so, "until I see you dance, in a -costume which I shall design for you." - -"Will you dance with me?" I asked him. That was the most fun--that I -could think of things to say, just the way Lena Curtsy used to--only -now they were never the kind that made anybody look shocked. - -"Make the appointment in the Fiji Islands or in Fez," he said; "and -there I will be." - -Mr. Gerald came and sat down beside me. - -"Oh, very well, Massy--to the knife," says Mr. Dudley. - -It was half after nine when we left for the opera. The second act had -begun, which seemed to me a wicked waste of tickets. But even then Mr. -Gerald had no intention of listening. He sat beside me and talked. - -"Cosma," he said, "I'm about ten times as miserable as usual to-night. -Can't you say something." - -I said, "Tell me: Is that what they call a minor? Because I want those -for my heaven." - -"I want you for my heaven," Mr. Gerald observed. "Dear, I'm terribly in -earnest. Don't make me run a race with that bally ass." - -"Don't race," I said. "Listen." - -"I am listening," said Gerald, "to hear what you will say." - -All at once it flashed over me: Cosma Wakely, from a farm near -Katytown! Here I was, loving my new life and longing to keep it up. - -"You're right where you belong," he went on, "looking just as you look -now. But you do need me, you know, to complete the picture." - -It was true. I did belong where I was. By a miracle I had got there. Why -was I hesitating to stay? If it had been Lena Curtsy, or Rose, I -couldn't imagine them feeling as if all this belonged to them. It was -true. There must be these distinctions. Why should I not accept what had -come? And then help the girls--help Father and Mother. Think of the good -I could do as Gerald's wife.... - -The music died, just like something alive. The curtain went down. And in -the midst of all the applause, and the silly bowing on the stage, and -the chatter in the box, I looked in the box next to ours. And there sat -John Ember. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -He was sitting very near me, leaning his arm on the velvet rail which -divided the boxes. He was looking at the stage. Two young girls and a -very beautiful woman, beautifully dressed, were with him. Save for his -formal dress, he looked exactly as he looked when I had said good-by to -him in Twiney's pasture. - -I was terrified for fear he should turn and look at me. I longed, as I -had never longed for anything, to have him turn and look. I shrank back -lest I should find that I must speak to him. I was wild with the wish to -lean and speak his name. What if he had forgotten? Not until I caught -the lift of his brow as he turned, the line of his chin, the touch of -his hand, already familiar, to his forehead, did I know how well I had -remembered. And then, abruptly, I was shot through with a sweetness and -a pride: The time had come! I could meet him as I had dreamed of -meeting him, speak to him as I had hoped sometime to speak to him, as -some one a little within his world.... - -"The bally trouble with opera--" Gerald was beginning. - -"Please, please!" I said. "You talked right through that act, Gerald. -Let me sit still now!" - -Mr. Ember, his face turned somewhat toward the house, was talking to the -woman beside him. - -" ... the new day," he said. "Such a place as this gives one hope. For -all the folly of it, some do care. Here is music--a good deal -segregated, in a place apart, for folk to come and participate. And they -come--by jove, you know, they come!" - -The woman said something which I did not hear. - -"Not as pure an example as a symphony concert," he said, "no. There they -demand nothing--no accessories, no deception, no laughter--even no -story! That is music, pure and undefiled, and, it seems to me, really -socialized. There participation is complete, with no interventions. I -tell you we're coming on! Any day now, the drama may do the same thing!" - -He listened to the woman again, and nodded, without looking at her. That -made me think of a new wonder--of what it would be to have him -understand one like that. - -"Ah, yes," he said, "there's the heartbreak. God knows how long it will -be before these things will be for more than the few. This whole -thing,"--his arm went out toward the house--"and us with it, are sitting -on the chests of the rest of them. And that isn't so bad, bad as it is. -The worst is that we don't even know it." - -"But what is one to do?" she cried--her voice was so eager that I caught -some of what she said. "What can one do?" - -"Find your corner and dig like a devil," he said. "I suppose I should -say go at it like a god. Only we don't seem to know how to do -that--yet." - -He sat silent for a minute, looking over the house. - -"We don't even half know that the other fellow is here," he said. "The -isolation in audiences is frightful. Look at us now--we don't even guess -we're all on the same job." He laughed. "We need to unionize!" - -Some one else came to their box and joined them. He rose, moved away, -talked with them all. Then he came to his place again, very near me, and -sat silent while the others talked. I could see his head against the -velvet stage curtain, and his fine clear profile. But now it was as if I -were looking at him down a measureless distance. - -I looked down at my yellow dress and my yellow slippers, at my hands -that were manicured under my long gloves. I thought of the things they -had taught me, about moving and speaking and eating. I thought how proud -I was that I had made myself different. And to-night, when I first saw -him in that box, it was as if I had come running to him, like a little -child with a few bangles--and I had thought I could meet him now, almost -like an equal. - -And I saw now that the girl who had sat there outside the Katytown inn -and had eaten her peaches, and had tried to flirt with him, wasn't much -farther away from him--not much farther away--than I was, there in the -opera box in my yellow dress, with a year of school behind me. And my -only chance to help in all this that he understood and lived was to go -with Rose; and I had let that slip, so that I could come here and show -off how well I looked, with my words--and my hair--done different. - -The place where he lived every day of his life was a place that I had -never gone in or guessed or dreamed could be. He was living for some -other reason than I had ever found out about. And I had thought that I -was almost ready to see him _now_! - -As far as I could, I drew back toward the partition, out of his possible -sight. But I heard the last act as I had never heard music -before--because I heard it as he was hearing it, as we all over the -house might have been listening to it. I listened with him. And all the -anguish and striving in the world were in the music and the music's way -of trying to make this clear. It said it so plain that I wondered all of -us didn't stand up in our places and "go at it like gods." - -Before the curtain, and in the high moment of the act, they came for us. -Mrs. Dudley liked to go down and give her carriage number early, -especially when a supper was on. So we went, and I left him there. I saw -him last against the crude setting of a prison, with the music -remembering back to what it had been saying long before. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -There is nothing more wonderful in the world than the minute when all -that you have always been seeing begins to look like something else. It -happened to me when I sat down at our table at the Ritz-Carlton, a table -which had been reserved for us and was set with orchids and had four -waiters, like moons. - -I sat between Gerald and Mr. Baddy Dudley. - -I looked up at Gerald, and I thought, "You're very kind. I owe you a -great deal. But is _this_ the way you are? Were you like this all the -time?" - -Then I looked up at Mr. Baddy Dudley. I wanted to say to him: "Ugh! -You're all locked up in your body, and you can't drop it away. Why -didn't you tell me?" - -Across the table was Mrs. Dudley, in flesh-pink and pearls. I thought of -her dancing, in the leopard skin and the pointed crown; and it seemed -to me that she was dead, a long time ago, and here she was, and she -didn't dream it herself. - -Here and there were the others; they seemed to fill the table with their -high voices and their tip-top speech and their strong, big white -shoulders. They were so kind--but I wondered if otherwise they had ever -been born at all, and what made them think that they had? - -Of them all, Antoinette was the best, because she was just -sketched--yet. She could rub herself out and do it nearly all over -again; and something about her looked anxious and hopeful, and as if it -was waiting to see if that wasn't what she would do. - -Then I tried to look myself in the face. And it seemed to me as if I -didn't find any of me there at all. - -I ate what they brought me; I answered what they said to me. But all the -time they were all as far off as the other tables of folk, and the -waiters, whom I didn't know at all. And all the while I looked around -the big white room, and up at the oval of the ceiling, and--"This whole -thing, and us with it, is sitting on the chests of the rest of them," I -thought. I wondered about Rose. If she walked, she must have got home -about the time I got to the opera. Rose! She was real, and she was -awake. She had come all that way to get me to help her to wake the rest. -Was that what he meant by digging like a devil? - -When we left the hotel, toward two o'clock, there was nothing to do but -to motor on with the rest. When we reached the Massys', the time was -already still, because it expected morning. The Dudleys and Mr. Baddy -Dudley had come up with us. When at last I got the window open in my -room, I was in time to see a little lift of gray in the sky beyond the -line of trees on the terrace. - -"The new day," I said. "The new day. Cosma Wakely, have you got enough -backbone in you to stand up to it?" - -It was surprising how little backbone it took the next afternoon. What -I had to do was what I wanted to do. All the forenoon, no one was -stirring. It was eleven before coffee came to our rooms. I had heard Mr. -Dudley calling a dog somewhere about, so I had kept to my room for fear -of meeting him. At one o'clock there were guests for luncheon. When they -started back to town I told Antoinette that I wanted to go with them. I -meant to get to Rose's meeting. - -"Nonsense!" she said. "Have you forgotten dinner? And the dancing?" - -I said that I was worried about my examinations, and that I wanted to -get back. When I first came to the Massys' I would have told them the -truth. - -The long ride down was like a still hand laid on something beating. I -liked being alone as much as once I had dreaded it. - -We had been late in setting off. It was almost six o'clock when I -reached the school. When I had eaten and dressed and was on my way to -the hall, it was already long past the time that Rose had named for the -meeting. - -All the girls were in their seats. There were only Rose and one or two -more on the platform. The hall was low and smoky. The girls were nervous -about the doors, and questioned everybody that came in. The girl at the -door began to question me when I went in, but Rose saw me. - -"Let her come in," she called out. "She's our next speaker!" - -And when I heard the ring in her voice, and saw her face and felt her -hand close on mine, and knew how glad she was that I had come, I was -happy. Happier than I had ever once been at the Massys'. - -I went right up on the platform. And my head and my heart had never been -so full of things to say. And the girls listened. - -Did you ever face a roomful of girls who work in a factory? Any factory? -But especially in a factory where, instead of treating them like one -side of the business, the owners treat them like necessary evils? You -wouldn't ever have supposed that the heads of the Carney factory were -dependent the least bit on the girls who did the work for them. You'd -have thought that it was just money and machinery and the buildings that -did the work, and that the girls were being let work for a kindness. I -never could understand it. When the business needed more money, the -owners gave it to it. When the machinery needed oil or repairs or new -parts, it got them. When the buildings had to have improvements, they -got them. But when the girls needed more light or air or wages or -shorter hours or a cleaner place to be, or better safety, they just got -laughed at and rowed at and told to learn their places, or not told -anything at all. And more girls come, younger, fresher, that didn't need -things. - -"If I was only my machine," I had heard Rose say that night, "I'd have -plenty of oil and wool and the right shuttles. But I'm nothing but the -operator, and the machine has the best care. And if there comes a -fire--_the machinery is insured_. But we ain't." - -I have not much remembrance of what I said to the girls that night. -There must have been a hundred of them in the hall. And I know that as -I stood there, looking into their faces, knowing them as I knew them, -with their striving for a life like other folks, there--suddenly ringed -round them--I saw the double tier of boxes of the night before, and I -heard his voice: - -" ... This whole place here, and we with them, are on the chests of the -others." - -I had no bitterness. But I had the extreme of consciousness that I had -ever reached--not of myself, but of all of us, and of the need of -helping on our common growth. They were to stand together, inviolably -together, for the fostering of that growth, I told them. An injury to -one was an injury to them all--because they were together. And the -employers of whom they made their demands were no enemies, but victims, -too, who must be helped to see, by us who happen to have had the good -fortune to be able to see the need first. - -I remember how I ended. I heard myself saying it as if it were some one -else speaking: - -"I'm with you. You must let me plan with you. But I can't plan with a -few of you, when the rest don't care. I want you all." - -When the evening was over, and I had found those I knew and met those -whom I didn't know, and had set down my name with the list that grew -before the door, made up of those who were willing "not to fight, but to -help," I stood for a minute in the lower hallway with Rose. - -"Oh, Cosma," she said, "I've got to tell you something. I done you dead -wrong. I thought last night that you'd gone over--that you didn't care -any more." - -"I didn't," I said. "It _had_ got me--the thing that gets folks." - -Next day I rehearsed my oration for the Savage Prize contest. When I'd -finished, Miss Spot told me that I needn't practise it any more before -her--just to say it over in my room through the three days until the -contest was to take place. - -"You deliver it as well as I could myself, Cosma," she said. - -So I walked back to my room, tore up my oration, and set to work to -write another. My head and my heart were full of what that other was to -be. I had been beating and pricking with it all night long after the -meeting. - -Savage Prize Day was a great day at the school. We were given engraved -invitations to send out. I sent mine to Mrs. Bingy and Rose and the -girls in the factory. I knew they couldn't come; but I knew, too, they'd -like getting something engraved. Only it happened that not only Mrs. -Bingy came--Rose and the girls came, too. Handed to them with their pay -envelope had been the notice to quit. Somebody had told the -superintendent about that meeting. Six of the leaders were let out. I -saw them all sitting there when I got up on the platform. And they gave -me strength, there in all that lot of well-dressed, soft-voiced folks. -They were dear people, too. Only they were dear, different. And they -didn't understand anything whatever about life, the way Mrs. Bingy and -Rose and I did. And that wasn't those folks' fault either. But they -seemed to take credit for it. - -Antoinette had an oration. Hers was on "Our Boat Is Launched; But -Where's the Shore?" It told about how to do. It said everybody should be -successful with hard work. It said that industry is the best policy and -bound to win. It said that America is the land where all who will only -work hard enough may have any position they like. It said that -everything is possible. Everybody enjoyed Antoinette's oration. She had -some lovely roses and violets, and all her relatives sat looking so -pleased. Her father had promised her a diamond pendant, if she got the -prize. - -There was another on "Evolution." She said we should be patient and not -hurry things, because short-cuts wasn't evolution. I wondered what made -her take it for granted God is so slow. But I liked the way her -bracelets tinkled when she raised her arm, and I think she did, too. - -Then it was my turn. I hadn't said anything to Miss Spot about changing -my oration. I thought if I could do it once to please them, I could do -it again. I worked hard on mine, because the prize was a hundred -dollars; and if Mrs. Carney wouldn't take it, I wanted it for Rose and -the girls. I thought Miss Spot would be pleased to think I did it -without any rehearsing. I imagined how she would tell visitors about it, -during ice-cream. - -I didn't keep a copy of it, but some of it was like this: - - - I decided to write about "Growing," because I think that growing is - the most important thing in the world. I believe that this is what - we are for. But some ways to grow aren't so important as others. - - For example, I was born on a farm near a little town. At first my - body grew, but not my mind. Only through district school. Then it - stopped and waited for something to happen--going away, getting - married, et cetera. Soon I met somebody who showed me that my mind - must keep on growing. - - It seems queer, but nobody had ever said anything to me about - growing. All that they said to me was about "behaving." And - especially about doing as I was told. - - Then I came to the city and I worked in a factory. Right away I - found out that there the last thing they thought about was anybody - growing. They thought chiefly about hurrying. Not a word was ever - said about growing. And yet, I suppose, all the time that was our - chief business. - - One day I went to the Museum, and I saw a large white statue of - Apollo Belvedere. The other people there seemed to know about him. - I didn't know about him, or any of the rest of the things; and I - went outside and cried. How was I to get to know, when nobody ever - said anything to me about him? Or about any of the things I didn't - know. I wasn't with people who knew things I didn't know. Or who - knew anything about growing. - - Then I came to this school. I've been here and I've learned a great - deal. Countries and capitals and what is shipped and how high the - mountains are, and how to act and speak and eat. I know that you - have to have all these. But I am writing about some education that - shows you how to be on account of what life is. And about how to - arrange education so that every one can have it, and not some of us - girls have it, and some of us not have anything but the - machines.... - - -I hadn't meant to say much about this. But all of a sudden,--while I -stood there speaking to that dressed-up roomful, with all the girls down -in front soft and white, and taken care of and promised diamond -pendants, it come over me--the difference between them and Rose and the -girls there on the back seats. And before I knew I was going to, I began -to get outside my oration as I planned it, and to talk about those -girls, and about where did their chance come in.... And I finished by -begging these girls here, that had every chance to grow, to do something -for the other girls that didn't have a chance to grow and never would -have a chance. - -"I don't know why you have it and why they don't," I said. "Maybe when -we grow up and get out in the world we'll understand that better. But it -can't be right the way it is. And can't we help them?" - -Some clapped their hands when I was done. There was another oration on -"Success," and one on "Opportunity," and then came the judges' decision. - -It was a big disappointment. I thought the other orations were so -wishy-washy, it didn't seem possible mine could have been any more so. -But it must have been, because only one of the judges voted for me. He -said something about "not so much subject matter as originality of -thought." The other two judges voted for Antoinette. That night, by -special delivery, she got her diamond pendant. - -Rose wrote a note on the back of her program. "Oh, Cosma, this is the -most wonderful thing that ever happened to the girls. I never knew -anybody else ever heard about us or cared about us. We'll never forget." - -When I got back to the dormitory, somebody was waiting for me in the -reception-room, and it was Gerald. He drew me over to a window, talking -all the way. - -"Cosma," he said, "by jove, I never heard anything like that. I say--how -did you ever get them to let you do it?... They'd never seen it? -Rich--_rich_! You sweet dove of an anarchist, you--" - -"Don't Gerald," I said. - -"Ripping," said he, "simply ripping! I never saw anything so beautiful -as you before all that raft. You looked like the well-known angels, -Cosma. And you ought to see my portrait of you now! You dear!" - -"Don't, Gerald," I said. - -He stared at me. "I say--you aren't taking to heart that miserable -hundred dollars! Cosma dearest! Oh, I'm mad about you ... this June, ... -this June--" - -"Please, please, Gerald," I said. "Don't you see? Those girls there -to-day. They're your sort and your people's sort. I'm not that...." - -He set himself to explain something to me. I could see it in his sudden -attitude. "Look here, Cosma," he said; "don't you understand the joy it -would be for a man to have a hand in training the girl he wants to have -for his wife?" At that, I looked at him with attention. "Let me be," he -went on, "your teacher, lover, husband. Gad, think what it will be to -have the shaping of the woman you will make! Can't you understand a man -being mad about that?" - -I answered him very carefully. "A man, maybe. But not the woman." - -"What?" said Gerald blankly. - -"I'll make myself," I said. "And then maybe I'll pick out a man who has -made himself. And if we love each other, we'll marry." - -"But," he said, "the sweetness of having you fit, day after day, into -the dream that I have of what you are going to be--" - -So then I told him. "Gerald," I said, "I wasn't meant to live your life. -I've got to find my job in the world--whatever that is. I've got to get -away from you--from you all--from everybody, Gerald!" - -"Good heavens!" he said. "Cosma, you're tired--you're nervous--" - -I looked at him quite calmly. "If," I said, "when I state some -conviction of mine, any man ever tells me again that I'm nervous, I'll -tell him he's--he's _drunk_. There's just as much sense in it." - -I gave him both my hands. "Gerald," I said, "you dear man, your life -isn't my life. I don't want it to be my life. That's all." - -Afterward, when I went up-stairs, with that peculiar, heavy lonesomeness -that comes from the withdrawal of this particular interest in this -particular way, I wondered if the life I was planning was made up of -such withdrawals, such hurts, such vacancies. - -And then I remembered the way I had felt when I walked home from the -meeting that Sunday night; and it seemed to me there are ways of -happiness in the world beside which one can hardly count some of the -ways of pleasure that one calls happiness now. - -In my room that night I found a parcel. It was roughly wrapped in paper -that had been used before. From it fell a white scarf and a paper. - - - "DEAR COSSY (the letter was written in pencil) I am going to send - you this whether you get the prize or whether you don't. If you - didn't get it, I guess you need the present worse. It's the nubia I - wore on my wedding trip. I sha'n't want it any more. I enclose one - dollar and your Pa sends one dollar to get you something with for - yourself. With love, - - "MA. - - "P. S. My one dollar is egg money, so it's my own it ain't from him - I raised them." - - -Suddenly, as I read, there came over me the first real longing that I -had ever had in my life for Katytown, and for home. - -One more incident belonged to Savage Prize Oration Day. - -Neither Miss Manners nor Miss Spot said anything to me about my oration. -But in commencement week Mrs. Carney came in to see me. - -"Cosma," she said, "I have a letter here which I must show you." - -I read the letter. It said: - - - "Dear Mrs. Carney: - - "After due consideration we deem it advisable to inform you that in - our judgment the spirit and attitude of Cosma Wakely are not in - conformity with the spirit of our school. - - "We have ever striven to maintain here an attitude of sweetness and - light, and to exclude everything of a nature disturbing to young - ladies of immature mind. Cosma is not only opinionated, but her - knowledge and experience are out of harmony with the knowledge and - experience of our clientele. We have regretfully concluded to - suggest to you, therefore, that she be entered elsewhere to - complete her course. - - "Thanking you, my dear Mrs. Carney, we beg to remain, - - "Respectfully yours, - "MATILDA MANNERS, - "EMILY SPOT." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -I drop five years--so much in the living, so little in the retrospect! - -Upon that time I entered with one thought: The university. At the school -I had always been ahead of my class, a meager enough accomplishment -there. I had browsed through the books of the third- and fourth-year -girls, glad that I found so little that I could not have mastered then. -Now, at Mrs. Carney's suggestion and with her help, I took some -tutoring; and, what with overwork and summer sessions and entering -"special" once more, I made the university, and, toward the close of my -fifth year, was nearing my graduation. A part of my expenses I had paid -myself. And how did I do that? By making lace for Mrs. Keddie Bingy! - -Life is so wonderful that it makes you afraid, and it makes you glad, -and it makes you sure. - -In the first year after I left Miss Spot and Miss Manners, I read in one -of the papers that John Ember had gone to China on an expedition which -was to spend two years in the interior. I wouldn't have believed that -the purpose could have dropped so completely out of everything--school, -town, life, I myself, became something different. Until then I had not -realized how much I had been living in the thought that I was somewhere -near him; that any day I might see him in the street, in the cars, -anywhere. It was hard to get used to knowing that somebody coming down -at the far end of the street could not possibly be he; that no list of -names in the paper could have his name. - -But just as, that first morning, I knew that he wouldn't want me to give -up and cry, so now I knew that I had to go ahead anyway, and do the best -I could. It was what he would have wanted. And I had only just begun to -make myself different. I had only just shown myself how much there was, -really, to be different about. - -It was wanting to see him so much that made me take out my book again, -after a long lapse, and read it over. The first pages were just as I -wrote them, on the wrapping-paper that came around the boys' overalls. -Then there were the sheets of manila paper that I had bought at the drug -store near the first little room that Mrs. Bingy and I took--I remember -how I had got up early and walked to the factory one morning to save the -nickel for the paper. Then a few pages that I had made at the school on -empty theme books; and some more on the Massys' guest paper, gray with -lavender lining and a Paris maker's name. Now I went on writing my book -with a typewriter that I was learning to use, since a man on Mrs. -Bingy's floor let me borrow his machine when he went out in the -mornings. My whole history was in those different kinds of paper in my -book. - -Those typewritten pages are of interest chiefly to myself. They are like -the thirty pages that I threw away because they told only about my -going from one factory to another. Only now the typewritten pages were -not about events at all, but about the things that went on in me. And -those I can sum up in a few words: For the important thing is that in -those pages I was recording my growing understanding of something which -Rose, out of her sordid living, had done so much to teach me: that my -life was not important just because it was the life of Cosma Wakely -alone, but it was important in proportion as it saw itself a part of the -life about it--the life of school, of working women and men, of all men -and women, of all beings. I began to wonder not so much how I could make -my own individual "success," whatever that means, as how I could take my -place in the task that we're all doing together--and of finding out what -that task is. - -That, in short, is what those years meant to me. The incidents do not so -much matter. Nobody gets this understanding in the way that any one else -gets it. It is the individual quest, the individual revelation. -Experience, education, love, the mere wear and tear of living, all go -toward this understanding. Most of all, love. I think that for me the -university and the entire faculty were only auxiliary lights to the -light that shone on me, over seas and lands, from the interior of China! - -Of all the wonder learned by loving, no wonder is more exquisite than -the magic by which one absent becomes a living presence. This man had so -established himself before me that it seemed to me I knew his judgments. -The simplicity of this new friend of mine, the mental honesty of that -one, the accuracy of a third who made me careful of my facts--these John -Ember would approve. I always knew. The self-centering or pretense of -others; I knew how he would smile at these, shrug at them, but never -despise them, because of his tender understanding of all life. Everybody -with whom I was thrown who was less developed than I, I understood -because I had been Cossy Wakely. Every one who was more developed, I -tried passionately to understand. These, and books, plays, music, -"society's" attempt to amuse itself, Rose and the factory, the whole -panorama of my life passed every day before the still tribunal of this -one man, who knew nothing about them. - -The two years' absence of the expedition to China lengthened to three -years, and it was well toward the close of the fourth year when Mrs. -Carney told me he might be turning home. But the summer and autumn -passed, and I heard nothing more. January came, and I was within a few -months of graduation. - -Then something happened which abruptly tied up the present to my old -life. - -I came home from class one afternoon to Mrs. Bingy's flat and found on -the table a letter for me. It was from Luke, in Katytown. - - - "DEAR COSSY [the letter said], I hate to ask you to do something, - but you're the only one. Lena's gone.... She left this letter for - me. I send it so you'll know. And she's gone. It says she's in the - city. I ain't got the money to go there with. Cossy, could you find - her? I thought maybe you could find her. She's got some folks there - and I think maybe she'll go there. It's an awful thing. I hate to - ask you but you are the only one please answer. - - LUKE." - - -The address which he sent me was far uptown, and it took me over to a -row of tenements near the East River. It was dark when I left the subway -station. And when I found the street at last it smelled worse than the -Katytown alleys in summer. - -In the doorway of what I thought was the number I was looking for, a man -and a woman were standing. I asked if this was the address I wanted, and -the woman answered that it was. - -"Isn't it Lena?" I said. - -"What do you want?" she asked. - -"It's Cossy," I answered. - -"Yes, I know. What do you want?" she asked again. - -I told her that I would wait up-stairs for her, and then the man went -away, and she came with me. We climbed the stairs and went along a hall -to a parlor that smelled of damp upholstery. She lighted a high central -gas-jet that flared without a burner. - -She had always been pretty, and she was that now, though her face had -lines made by scowling. Her neck and shoulders and breast were almost -uncovered, because her waist was so thin and so low-cut. Her little arms -were bare from above the elbow, and her little features looked still -smaller under a bright irregular turban with a feather like a long -sword. - -"Luke asked me to find you," I said. "He said he didn't have the money -to come himself." - -"Poor Luke," said Lena unexpectedly. "He's got the worst of it. But I -can't help it." - -"You've just come up for a little while, though, haven't you?" I asked -her. "And then you're going back?" - -She shrugged, and all the bones and cords of her neck and chest stood -out. The shadow of her feather kept running over her face, like a knife -blade. - -"What's the use of your talking like the preacher?" she said. "You got -out yourself." - -"Yes," I said, "but--" - -"You knew before and I didn't know till after," she added. "That's all. -I couldn't stand it, either." - -I sat still, wondering what to say. - -"We moved in there with his mother and father," Lena said. "His father -was good to me; but he was sick and just one more to take care of. His -mother--well, I know it was hard for her, but she was bound I should do -everything her way. She was a grand good housekeeper--and I ain't. I -hate it. She got the rheumatism and sat in her chair all day and told me -how. I tell you I couldn't stand it--" - -Her voice got shrill, and I thought she was going to cry. But she just -threw back her head and looked at me. - -"And now in seven months," she said, "something else. That was the last -straw. I says now I'd never get out. I've come up here for the last good -time I may ever have. If Luke won't take me back, he needn't. I don't -care what becomes of me anyway." - -"Oh, Lena," I said. - -"Don't you go giving yourself airs," she said. "You got away. We've -heard about your school and your smartness. But supposin' you hadn't. Do -you think you'd have stayed in Luke's mother's kitchen slavin'?" - -"No, Lena," I said. "I honestly don't think I would." - -The gas without any burner flickered over the big-figured carpets and -chairs and table cover, the mussy paper flowers and the rusty gas stove -and the crayon portraits. I almost felt as if I were there in Lena's -place. - -"I s'pose, though, you're goin' to tell me to go back," she said. "Well, -best spare your breath." - -It came to me what I had to do, just as simply as things almost always -come. - -"I'm not going to tell you any such thing," I said. "I wondered if you -wouldn't come down and stay with Mrs. Bingy and me while you're here. -We've got an extra cot." - -She tossed her head. "You're laughing at me," she said. - -"No," I said, "I want you. So would Mrs. Bingy." - -When she understood, something seemed to go out of her. She shrank down -in the chair, and that look of hers went away from her. - -"I'd love to," she said. "Oh, Cossy--I thought when I got here things'd -be different. But I've been here four days, and I ain't really had any -fun here either!" - -I told her to get her things ready, and when she went to tell her -mother's aunt, with whom she was staying, her aunt came in and made us -both have some supper first. The table was in the kitchen, and the aunt -was cooking flap-jacks over the stove. Her husband was a tunnel man, and -so was his son. There were two girls younger than Lena; one of them was -ticket-seller in a motion-picture house, and one of them was "at home." - -"Don't you work?" I said to her. - -"Hessie's going to be married," said her mother, proud and final. - -"Believe me, she'd better get a job instead," said Lena--and I saw the -girl who was ticket-seller turn a puzzled face to her, but the -bride-to-be laughed. I was glad that I was going to take Lena away from -them. Whatever is to be learned by women, it seems to me that they -should never have for teacher a bitter woman, however wise. - -Lena had felt a good deal--I could see that; but she knew nothing. To -her, her own case was just one isolated case, and due to her bad luck. -She had no idea that she was working at a problem, any more than Mrs. -Bingy and I had when we left Katytown. Or any more than her mother's -aunt, who was thick and flabby and bothered about too much saleratus in -the flap-jacks. I thought of the difference between Lena and Rose. -They'd got something so different out of a hard life. Rose felt hers for -all women; but Lena felt hers for just Lena. - -When we got back to the flat, Mrs. Bingy had the gas log burning and she -was working at her lace. The child was awake, and playing about. Lena -stood in the passage door and looked. We had some plain dark rugs and a -few pieces of willow furniture that we had bought on the instalment -plan. I had made some flowered paper shades for the lights. Mrs. Carney -had given me one lovely colored print. I had my school-books and some -library books on the shelves. And we had a red couch cover Mrs. Bingy -had bought--"shut her eyes and bought," she said. - -"Oh, ain't it nice?" Lena said. - -"Luck sakes," said Mrs. Bingy. "If it ain't Lena-Curtsey-that-was. Well, -if here ain't the whole neighborhood!" - -I followed Lena into my little bedroom that night. - -"Lena," I said, "does Luke know what you told me?" - -She shook her head. - -"Wouldn't you better write and tell him?" I asked. "And tell him just -why you want to get away for a while?" - -"He'd think I was crazy," she answered. "They'd talk it over. His ma'd -say I was a wicked woman--and I donno but what I am. But I will be crazy -if I stay stuck there in that kitchen all those months--" - -She began to cry. I understood that the best thing to do was to let her -stay here quietly with us and give her whatever little pleasure we -could. - -She let me write to Luke and tell him that she was going to visit us for -a while. I told her I would take her to a school play the next night, -and we looked over her things to decide what she was to wear. - -"Lord, Cossy," she said, "it's been months since I've went to bed -thinking I was going to have any fun the next day." - -Afterward I found Mrs. Bingy sitting with her head on her hand. - -"I wonder," she said, "if I done it." - -"What, Mrs. Bingy?" I asked. - -"When any woman in Katytown leaves her husband, I'll always think that -if I hadn't gone, maybe----" - -"Mrs. Bingy," I said, "suppose you had stayed. Either he'd have murdered -you and the baby, too, maybe, or else you might have had another child -or two--with a drunken brute for a father. If you've helped anybody like -you to get away, you be glad!" - -"I don't know what to make of you sometimes, Cossy," she said. -"Sometimes what you say sounds so nice I bet it's wicked." - -She took the child, gathered him up with a long sweep of her arm and -tossed him, with one arm, on her shoulder. She was huge and brown, as -she used to be; but now her life had rounded out her gauntness, and she -looked fed and rested and peaceful. To see her in the little -sitting-room of the flat, busy and happy and cheerful, was like seeing -her soul with another body, or her body with another soul, or both. I -never got over the wonder of it. - -The school play gave Lena nothing of what she pathetically called "fun." -And when she went with me to the factory dances, she turned up her nose -at the men, not one of whom was, she said, a "dresser." She told me that -she hated to be with anybody who knew more than she did. In a fortnight -she went back to Luke's aunt to stay, I suspected, as long as her small -money held out at the motion-picture shows. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It was just before Lena left us that Mrs. Carney telephoned one day for -me to come to her house to dinner on the following night. "He's back!" I -said to myself as I hung up the receiver; for by now Mrs. Carney had -guessed something of John Ember's place in my life, though we had never -spoken of it. But he was not back, now, any more than he had been all -the other times that I had leaped at the hope, in these three years. It -was some one else who had come back. - -Mr. Arthur Carney was in Europe that year, and I went there that night -without thinking that there was such a person as he in the world, so -long had I forgotten his existence. But Mrs. Carney told me that she had -had, the day before, a telegram to say that he had landed in New York -and would be at home by the end of the week. While we were waiting for -dinner to be announced, he unexpectedly appeared in her drawing-room. -And he said to her, before all those people: - -"You see, my dear, I've come to surprise you. I've come to see how well -you amuse yourself while I am away." - -He said that he would go in to dinner with us just as he was. He was -welcomed by everybody, and, of course, Mrs. Carney introduced him to me. -She could have had no better answer to what he had just said to her. - -"May I present my husband, Miss Wakely?" she said. "Arthur, she was once -at the factory. You may remember----" - -He had grown stouter, and his face was pink, and his head was pink -through his light hair. He carried a glass and stared at me through it, -and then he dropped his glass and said: - -"My word, you know. Then we've met before, we two." - -"I've never had the pleasure of really meeting you, Mr. Carney," I said. - -"You parted from me anyway. I remember that," he said. And presently he -came back to where I was. "Here's my partner, please, madame," he said -to Mrs. Carney. - -So I sat beside him. Of course I wasn't afraid of him any more and I -wasn't really annoyed by him. I could just study him now. And I thought: -"If only every girl whom a man follows, as you followed me, could just -study him--like a specimen." - -"That was a devilish clever trick you played on me, you know," he said, -when we were seated. "How'd you come to think of it?" - -I said: "That was easy. I could think of it again." - -"You could, could you?" said he. "Well, what I want to know is what -you're doing here?" - -"Mrs. Carney must tell you that," I reminded him. - -He stared at me. "You're a cool one," he said. "Come, aren't you going -to tell me something about yourself? Why, I must be just about the first -friend you had in this little old town." - -I had been wondering if I dare say some of all that was in my mind, and -I concluded that I did dare--rather than hear all that was in his. So I -said: - -"Mr. Carney, you have been asking me some questions. Now I wonder if I -may ask you some?" - -"Sure," he said. "Come ahead. I'd be flattered to get even that much -interest out of you." - -"It's something I've thought a good deal about," I told him, "and hardly -anybody can ever have asked about it, first hand. But you must know, and -you could tell me." - -"I'll tell you anything you want to know," he said. "Even how much I -still think of you." - -It was hard to keep my temper, but I did, because I really wanted to -know. Every woman must want to know, who's been through it. - -"I wish you'd tell me," I said, "just how a man figures everything out -for himself, when he begins to hunt down a girl--as you hunted me?" - -He stared again, and then he burst out laughing. - -"Bless you," he said, "he doesn't figure. He just feels." - -"But now, think," I urged. "After all, you have brains--" - -"Many, many thanks, little one," he said. - -"--and sometimes you must use them. In those days, didn't you honestly -care what became of me? Didn't you think about that at all?" - -"You can bet I did," he said. "Didn't I make it fairly clear what I -wanted to become of you?" - -I wondered whether I could go on. But I felt as if I must--because here -was something that is one of the big puzzles of the world. - -"But after?" I said. "After?" - -He shrugged. - -"I wasn't borrowing trouble, you understand?" he said. - -"No," I told him. "No. You were just piling it up for me--that was all. -Now see here: In these five years I've had school as I wanted to have -then. I know more. I'm better worth while. I'm better able to take my -place among human beings. I've begun to grow--as people were meant to -grow. Truly--were you willing to take away from me every chance of -that--and perhaps to see me thrown on the scrap-heap--just to get what -you wanted?" - -He looked at me, and then around his table, where his wife's twenty -guests were sitting--well-bred, charming folk, all of them. - -"My God," he said, "what a funny dinner-table conversation." - -"Isn't it?" I agreed. "These things are usually just done--they aren't -very often said. But I wish that you could tell me. I should think you'd -be interested yourself. Don't you see that we've got a quite unusual -chance to run this thing down?" - -For the first time I saw in his eyes a look of real intelligence--the -sort of intelligence that he must have used with other men, in -business, in politics, in general talk. For the first time he seemed to -me not just a male, but a human being. - -"Seriously," he said gravely, "I don't suppose that one man in ten -thousand ever thinks of what is going to become of the woman. Of course -there are the rotters who don't care. Most of them just don't think. I -didn't think." - -"I'm glad to believe," I said, "that you didn't think. I've wondered -about it. But will you tell me one thing more: If men don't think, as -you say, why is it that they are so much more likely to hunt down -'unprotected' women, working women, women alone in a city--than those -who have families and friends?" - -There was something terrible in the question, and in the way that he -answered it. He served himself to a delicious ragout that was passed to -him, he sipped and savored the wine in his glass, and then he turned -back to me: - -"They are easier," he said simply, "because so many of them don't get -paid enough to live on. They're glad to help out." - -"And yet," I said, "and yet, Mr. Carney, you own a factory where three -hundred and fifty of these girls don't get paid enough." - -"Oh, well, murder!" he said. "Now you're getting on to something else -entirely. We can't do anything to wages. They're fixed altogether by -supply and demand--supply and demand. You simply take these things as -you find them--that's all." - -"You took me to that factory," I reminded him. - -"Well," he said, "you were looking for a job, weren't you? Was that -three dollars per better than nothing--or wasn't it?" - -I kept still. Something was the matter, we seemed to go in a circle. -Finally I said: - -"Anyway, Mr. Carney, I thank you for answering me. That was a good deal -to do." - -He sat turning his wine-glass, one hand over his mouth. - -"You do make me seem a blackguard," he said, "and yet--on my honor--if -you think I have any--I didn't think I was. I didn't mean anybody any -harm. Damn it all, I was just trying to find a little fun." - -He looked at me. And all at once, I knew how he must have looked when he -was a little boy. I could see the little boy's round eyes and full red -cheeks, and the way he must have answered when he'd done something -wrong. And it didn't seem to me that he'd ever grown any older. I -understood him. I understood most men of his type. And I believed him. -He was just blundering along in the world's horrible, mistaken idea of -fun--that means death to the other one. - -Before I knew it, my eyes brimmed full of tears. He saw that, and sat -staring at me. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -I had gone wondering how I should see him at last, and what we should -say to each other. It never once occurred to me that we might not meet -again, or that when we did meet it would mean merely the casual renewing -of a casual occasion. As for me everything moved from the time when I -had met John Ember, so everything moved toward the time when I should -see him again. I pictured meeting him on the street, at Mrs. Carney's -house, about the university. I pictured him walking into a class room to -give one of the afternoon lectures--older, his hair a little grayed, and -yet so wonderfully the same as when he had spoken to me there on the -country road. And I could imagine that if I said my name to him he would -have to stop and hunt through his mind for any remembrance of that -breakfast and that walk which were, so far, the principal things that -had ever happened to me. - -Then I used to dream that he did remember. - -"Mr. Ember, I'm Cosma Wakely. You won't remember--but I just wanted to -say 'thank you' for what you did." - -And: "Remember. My dear child, I've been looking for you ever since. Sit -down--I want to talk with you." - -Once I saw his picture in a magazine, looking so grave and serious, and -I liked to know that there was that Katytown morning, and that I knew -him in a way that none of the rest did; that I'd been with him on that -lonely, early road and had heard him talk to me--no matter how stupid -I'd acted--and that we'd sat together over breakfast in the yard of the -Dew Drop Inn. Just in that I had one of the joys of a woman who loves a -great man, and understands him as all those who sit and look up to him -can never understand him. I felt as if something of me belonged to John -Ember. - -And when I did see him, it was as if he had never been away. - -I had been twice to see Lena, and found her in the stale-smelling rooms -of her aunt, each time at work upon some tawdry finery of her own. One -day I thought about begging her to go with me to a gallery that I had -found where hung a picture which it seemed to me must speak to her. - -She went readily enough--she was always eager to go somewhere in a -pathetic hope that some new excitement, adventure, would await her. We -walked to the gallery, through the gay absorbed crowd on the avenue; and -as we moved among them, the chattering gaiety with which we had left her -aunt's, fell from her, the lines deepened about her mouth, and finally -she fell silent. - -Almost no one was in the little gallery. I led her to the central bench, -and we sat down facing the picture that I had brought her to see: A -woman in a muslin gown holding a child. I guessed how the Madonnas, in -their exquisite absorption and in radiance and in crimson and blue would -have for her little to say, as a woman to a woman. But this girl, in -the simple line and tone of every day, with a baby in her arms, seemed -to me to hold a great fact, and to offer it. - -Lena looked at her, and her face did not change. I waited, without -saying anything, feeling certain that whatever I said she was in a mood -to contradict. So she spoke first. - -"It looks grand," she said, "till you think of the work of washin' and -ironin' the baby's clothes. And her own. You can bet I shan't keep it in -white." - -"Look at the baby's hand," I said, "around her one finger." - -It was at that moment that the owner of the little gallery came in, with -a possible patron. They stood near us, looking at a landscape by the -artist of the Madonna. - -" ... a wise restraint," he was saying. "Restraint is easy enough--it is -like closing one's mouth all the time. The thing is to close it wisely! -It is not so much the things that he elects not to include in the -composition as it is his particular fashion of omission--without -self-consciousness, with no pride of choice. I should say that of all -the young artists now working in America, he comes the closest to giving -place to the modern movements, seeing them as contributions but not -often as ultimates--" - -"I'm goin'," said Lena. - -I followed her. On the sidewalk, she tossed her head and laughed -unpleasantly. - -"No such talk as that guy was giving in mine," she said. "He feels -smart--that's what ails him. Cossy, I hate folks like that. I hate 'em -when they pretend to know so much...." - -"What if they do know, Lena?" I said. - -"Then I don't want to be with 'em," she answered. "That's easy, ain't -it? Sometimes I almost hate you. Ain't they some store where they's a -basket of trimmin' remnants we could look at?" - -I took her to a shop, and she walked among the shining stuffs, -forgetting me. She loved the gowns on the models. She felt contempt for -no one who was dressed more beautifully than she--only for those who -"knew more" than she. I thought how surely beauty and not knowledge is -the primal teacher, universally welcomed. Beauty is power. - -But the remnant basket did not please her, and we stepped into the -street to seek another shop. And standing beside a motor door, close to -the way we passed, were Mrs. Carney and John Ember. - -It was only for a moment, then the door shut upon them and they drove -away. But I had seen him as I had dreamed him, a little older, but -always in that brown, incomparable youth. He was bending his head to -listen--that was the way I always thought of him. He was giving some -unsmiling assent. He was here, and no longer across the world. I stood -still, staring after the car. - -"Gee, that was a swell blue coat," said Lena. "I don't blame you for -standing stock-still. I bet I could copy that.... Come on!" - -I went with her. But I hardly heard her stream of comment and bitter -chatter. And yet it was not all of John Ember that I was thinking, nor -was I filled only with my singing consciousness that he was back. I was -seeing again Mrs. Carney's face as she had turned to speak to him; -glowing, relaxed, open like a flower. - -Presently I was aware that Lena was not beside me. I looked and she was -before the window of a shop. I crossed to her, and then I saw what she -was looking at--no array of cheap blouses, price-marked, or of flaming -plumes. She stood before the window of a children's outfitting shop. - -I said nothing, nor did she. She looked, and I waited. The white things -were exquisite and, I felt, remote. They were so dainty that I feared -they would alienate her, because they were so much beyond her. But to my -surprise, she turned to me: - -"Could--could we go in here," she asked, "even if we didn't buy -anything?" - -We went in. Within the atmosphere was still more compact of delicate -fabric and fashioning and color. An assured young woman came forward. - -"Leave us look at some of your baby things," said Lena. - -We looked. I shall never forget Lena's hands, ungloved, covered with -rings and cheap blue and red stones, as those hands moved in and about -the heaped-up fineness of the little garments. Of some of the things she -did not know the names. The pink and blue crocheted sacks and socks -brought her back to them again and again. - -"I used to could crochet," she said at length. - -But it was before a small white under-skirt that she made her real way -of contact. She fingered the white simple trimming, and her look flew to -mine. - -"My God," she said, "that's 'three-and-five.' I can do that like -lightning." - -"Get some thread," I said, "and make some...." - -She had made nothing yet. She had told me that. Now she lifted and -touched for a moment among the heaped-up things that they brought her. - -"I've got five dollars," she said, "that I was savin' to get me a swell -hat, when I go back. I might--" - -I said nothing. It seemed to me that a great thing was happening and -that Lena must do it alone. After a little I priced the dimities and -muslins in her hearing. - -"If you want to, Lena," I said, "you could come back to the flat and -Mrs. Bingy would help you to make the things...." - -"Would five dollars get the cloth for two dresses and two skirts and -some crochet wool? Some pink wool?" asked Lena. - -So she bought these things, with the five dollars that hung about her -neck in a little bag. As we went out the door, she saw a bassinet, all -fine whiteness and flowered blue and lace edging. - -"It's a clothes basket!" she cried excitedly. "Don't you see it is? -What's the matter with me making one like that?" She turned to me, -laughing as boisterously as I had heard her laugh in the Katytown -post-office when more traveling men than usual were sitting outside the -door of the Katytown Commercial House. "Land," she said, "when I get -back home, I bet I'll have everything but the baby!" - -I sat beside her in the street-car, and she tried to make a hole in the -paper of her parcel to see again the color of the wool she had bought -for the little sack. There was thread, too, for the "three-and-five." -Lena's eyes were bright and eager. She said little on the way home, and -she made no objection to going with me to the flat. When we unrolled the -parcel on Mrs. Bingy's dining-room table, and I saw Lena stooping and -planning, I thought of the picture that we had left in the little -gallery. There was a look in Lena's eyes that I had never seen there -before. I heard Mrs. Bingy and her chattering happily over the patterns, -and I thought that beauty has many ways of power. - -Then, the next day, I had a telegram from Mrs. Carney. - -"Come to see me to-day," she said. "Important." - -I hurried to her, dreaming, as I had dreamed all night, of whom I might -find with her. But she was alone, and in some happy excitement that was -beautifully becoming to her, who was usually so grave and absent. - -"Cosma," she said, "what would you say to leaving the university before -you have your degree?" - -I knew that very well. "I would say," I said, "that I don't care two -cents about the degree, if I can get the right position without it." - -"I hoped you would say that!" she cried. "Then listen: John Ember has -asked me to find a secretary for him. Will you go and try for the -place?" - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -His library had not many books, not many pictures, and no curtains at -all. The nine o'clock sun fell across the dull rugs, and some blue and -green jars on a shelf shone out as if they were saying something. I -waited for him at the hour of the appointment that Mrs. Carney had made -for me. And for me some of the magic and the terror of the time were in -that she had not told him who I was. When his little Japanese had gone -to call him, I sat there in a happiness which made me over, which made -the whole world seem like another place. I heard his step in the -passage, and I wondered if I was going to be able to speak at all. I -rather thought not, until the very moment that I tried. - -He came toward me, bowing slightly, and motioning me to my chair. I -looked at him, with a leaping expectation in my heart, and, I am -afraid, in my eyes. His own eyes met mine levelly, courteously, and -without a sign of recognition. - -"Now, let us see," he said briskly, and sat down before me. "About how -much experience have you had?" - -"I have never been anybody's secretary, if that is what you mean," I -said, when I could. - -"It is not in the least what I mean," he returned. "If you happen not to -have been anybody's secretary, I am glad of it. I meant, 'What can you -do?'" - -"I can typewrite," I managed to tell him. "And almost always I can -spell." - -"That's good," he said, "though far from essential. Now what else?" - -I thought for a moment. "I can keep still," I said. "I don't believe -there's anything else I can do." - -"That makes an admirable beginning," he observed gravely. "Do--do you -take down all instructions? In notes?" - -"I can, if you like," I said. "But I can never read my own notes." - -"You don't do shorthand?" he cried. - -For the first time, as I shook my head, it occurred to me that I might -not meet his requirements. - -"Well, now," he was saying, "that is good news. I was afraid you might -come with a ruled note-book," he explained. "The flap kind." - -"No," I said, "I begin at both ends of those. And then I never can find -the notes." - -"Precisely," he said. "Now about your head. Is it likely to ache every -few minutes?" - -"Only when I read the map in an automobile," I answered. - -"Fortunately," he assured me, "there will be little of that in my -requirements. Now the honest truth: Can you work hard? Can you work like -a demon if you have to?" - -"Yes. Unless it has figures in it," I said. - -"It hasn't," he said. "Or at least, when it has, I shall have to do -those myself, for my sins. But I warn you, there's some pretty stiff -work ahead. It's a labor survey of China. And I want somebody to do ten -hours a day most of the time, showing how like dogs the Chinese workmen -are treated." - -Ten hours a day with him! I sat silent, trying to take in the magnitude -of my joy. - -"It's too much?" he hazarded. - -"Oh!" I cried. "No. Why no!" He looked up inquiringly. "See the women in -this town," I added, "who work ten hours a day and more." - -"We're going to get along extremely well, then," he said, "if you don't -mind my damned irritability--I beg your pardon. I'm shockingly -irritable--but," he paused, leaning forward, still grave, "let me tell -you, confidentially, now, that I always know it, underneath. You can't -mind what I say too awfully, you know, if I put you in possession of -that fact to start with. Can you?" - -"I shan't mind," I said. - -"Well, you will, you know," he warned me, "but that at least ought to -help. I suppose it wouldn't be possible for you to go to work now? This -moment?" - -"Yes, it would," I said, trying hard not to say it too joyfully. - -"What?" he exclaimed. "Really? Without breaking an engagement? Or -telephoning anybody? This is wonderful. Oh, by the way. Let me see your -hand when you write." - -He brought me a pad and pen and ink. - -"Write anything," he said. "Write." - -I wrote. He watched me absorbedly and drew a sigh that might have been -relief. - -"That's all right, too," he told me. "I had a young woman here helping -me once who wrapped her fingers round the pen when she wrote, in a -fashion that drove me mad. I used to go out and dig in the garden till -my secretary had gone home, and then come in and get down to work -myself." - -I put away my hat, and merely to shut the door on the closet that held -umbrellas and raincoats was an intimacy that gave me joy. I had starved -for him, thirsted for him, and two days ago had not known that he was -not in China still; yet here was this magic, as life knows so well to -manufacture magic. - -"I'm afraid I don't remember," he said, "what Mrs. Carney told me your -name is?" - -While we talked, it had been gradually fastening itself in my mind that -it would have been remarkable if he had recognized me. A country girl, -in a starched white dress, with her hair about her face, acting like a -common creature on the Katytown road, and later, to his understanding -working in a New York factory, could have no connection with a woman of -twenty-six, in well-fitting clothes, who came to him six years after, as -his secretary. I told him my last name, and he said it over as if it had -been Smith. - -In a corner of the library, by the window overlooking the little garden, -he set me to sorting an incredible heap of notes, made illegibly on -paper of varying sizes, unnumbered, but every sheet scrupulously dated. -These covered two years and a half, and their arrangement was anything -but chronological. - -"Note-books have their uses," he admitted, surveying that hopeless -pile. "But not the flap kind," he added hastily. - -I set to work, and as I touched the papers which had been with him all -those days when I had seen the sun off for China, it seemed to me that I -must tell somebody: "It's true then! Excepting for the misery in the -world, you can be perfectly happy!" I had always doubted it. You do -doubt it, until you have a moment of perfect happiness for your own. And -this was the first one that I had ever known. He was at some proofs, and -he promptly forgot my existence. After all these years, after the few -rare glimpses of him which had been food for me and a kind of life, here -I was where by lifting my eyes I could see him, where countless times a -day I could hear him speak. Better than all this, and infinitely dearer, -I was, however humbly, to help him in his work. I, Cosma Wakely, who, on -a day, had tried to flirt with him. - -I went at the notes fearfully. What if I could not understand them? -There were gods, I knew, whose written word is all but measureless to -man, I own that his notes were far from clear. Perhaps it was just -because I so much wanted it that I understood them. Moreover, I found, -to my intense delight, that I some way _felt_ what he was writing. This -I can not explain, but every one who loves some one will know how this -is. - -In half an hour he wheeled suddenly in his chair at the table. I caught, -before he spoke, his look of almost boyish ruefulness. - -"Miss Wakely," he said, "I beg your pardon like anything. What salary do -you have?" - -I felt my face turn crimson. This had occurred to me no more than it had -to him. - -When it was settled, he rose and came toward the corner where I worked, -and stood looking down at me. For a moment I was certain that now he -knew me. - -"Miss Wakely," he said very gently, "may I ask you one thing more? Do -you wear black sateen aprons?" - -"I loathe all aprons," I said. - -"And paper sleeve-shields, too?" he inquired earnestly. "Held by big -rubber bands?" - -"Paper sleeve-shields held by big rubber bands," I said, "I loathe even -more than black sateen aprons." - -"Well," he said, "do you know, there was one young woman once--" and he -went back to his task obliviously. - -At one o'clock I found a little tea-shop in the neighborhood, where food -was scandalously high, after the manner of unassimilated tea-shops. I -remember the clean little room, with a rose on my table and shelves of -jelly over my head. - -"How much better that is than some books," I said to the pink waitress, -because I had to speak to somebody, so that I could smile. The world is -not yet adjusted with that simplicity which permits one to sit in public -places alone and, very happily, to smile. And this, I realized, was what -I had been doing. - -I was obliged to walk twice the transverse length of the blocks cut by -the little studio street, before it was time to go back. As I was -returning the second time, I came face to face with Mr. Ember carrying a -paper sack. - -"Torchido," he explained, "lectures in a young ladies' seminary just at -noon. It is not convenient for me. But I mind nothing so much as the -fact that he will not let me have dried herrings. They--they offend -Torchido. They do not offend me. So I go out and buy herrings of my own -and hide them in the bookcase. But he nearly always smells them out." - -I wanted to say: "You can't buy anywhere such good ones as we used to -have in Katytown." Instead, I said something in disparagement of -Torchido's taste, and reflected on the immeasurable power of dried -herrings in one human being's appeal to another. - -I went back to work in my corner, and he ate herrings and buns, -unabashed, at his library table. When I saw Torchido coming along the -garden wall, I said: "Torchido--he's coming!" and Mr. Ember swept the -remains of his lunch into the sack and dropped it into one of the -glorious green-blue jars. - -Torchido came in for orders, took them, stood for a moment plainly -sniffing the air, pointedly opened a far window, and respectfully -retreated. Whereat the first faint smile that I had seen met my look, -when the door had closed. - -It was a heavenly day. It seemed to me that some heritage of my young -girlhood had, after all, not quite escaped in all that sordid time, but -had waited for me, let me catch it up and, now, enjoy it as I never -could have enjoyed it then. - -I walked home that night, in remembrance of that first miserable walk -away from that studio, and because I like to be happy in the exact -places where I have been miserable. I wanted to be alone for a little -while, too, to think out what had happened. And all the way home that -night, and all the evening when I did no work, the thing which kept -recurring to me was the magic of a universe in which herrings and the -absence of black sateen aprons permit immortal beings to draw a little -nearer to each other. - -The days were all happy. That combination of fellowship and its humor, -together with a complete impersonality which yet exquisitely takes -account of all human personality and variously values it, was something -which I had never before known in any man. I had not, in fact, known -that it was in the world. It is exceedingly rare--yet. Most women die -without knowing that it does occasionally exist. But it presages the -thing which lies somewhere there, beyond the border of the present, -beside which the spectacle of romantic love _without it_ will be as -absurd as chivalry itself. - -I used to think, in those first days, how gloriously democratic love -would make us--if we would let it. I understood history now--from the -time of the first man and woman! Not a cave man, not a shepherd on the -hills, not a knight in a tournament, but that I understood the woman who -had loved him. It was astonishing, to have, all of a sudden, not only -the Eloises and Helens clear to me--they have been clear to many--but -also every little obscure woman who has ever watched for a man to come -home. And it wasn't only that. It was that I understood so much better -the woman of now. Women in cars and in busses, shoppers, shop-women, -artists, waitresses, char-women, "great" ladies--none of them could -deceive me any more. No snobbery, no hauteur, no superiority, no -simplicity could ever trap me into any belief that they and I were -different. If they loved men, then I know them through and through. - -"Mrs. Bingy," I said to her one night, "did you ever love Mr. Bingy -much?" - -She was re-setting the pins in her pillow and she looked over at me with -careful attention. - -"Well," she said, "they was a good many of us to home, you know; and I -didn't have much to do with; and I really married Keddie to get a home. -But of course, afterward I got fond of him. And then to think of us -now!" - -"But you really didn't love him when you married him?" - -"No," she said. "It's a terrible thing to own up to." - -And there again was the whole naked problem, as I had seen it for her, -for Lena, for my mother, for all the women of Katytown, for Mrs. -Carney, for Rose.... What was the matter? When love was in the world for -us all, when at some time every one of us shared it--what was the reason -that it came to this? Or--as I had seen almost as often--to the model -"happy" home, which often bred selfishness and oblivion? - -Yet in those days I confess that I thought far less about these things -than I did of the simple joy of being in that workroom where he was. - -There was a day of rain early in June--of rain so intense and compelling -that when lunchtime came I left in the midst of it, while Mr. Ember was -out of the room, so that he should not be constrained to ask me to stay. -When I came back he scolded me. - -"You didn't use good sense!" he said. "Why didn't you?" - -"I used all I had," I replied with meekness. - -"If that was all you had, you'd lose your job," he grumbled. "Never go -out from here again in such a rain as that. Do you hear?" - -Torchido not yet having returned from his lecture, Mr. Ember built up a -cedar fire in the fireplace and made me dry my feet. - -"I am going to make you a cup of tea," he said, "from some--" - -"Don't tell me," I said, "that it's from the same kind that the emperor -uses?" - -"It is not," he replied. "This is another form of the same -advertisement. This is some which was picked four hundred years ago." - -"Oh," I said, "I dislike tea more than I can tell you. But I should like -to drink a cup of that." - -The stuff was horrible. It was not strong, but it had an unnameable -puckering quality. I tasted it, and waited. - -"Do you like it?" he asked eagerly. - -"It is," I said, "the worst tea I have ever tasted in my whole life. I -feel as if I had been shirred." - -He burst into laughter. - -"So I think," he said, "but lovely ladies drink it down and pretend to -like it, just because I tell 'em what it is. I'm glad you hate it." - -He held the tin over the coals. - -"Shall I burn it?" he asked. "To the tune of 'What horrid humbugs lovely -ladies are'?" - -"Oh, no," I said, "give it to some old lady who will think it is just -tea." - -He nodded. "You have made the economically correct adjustment," he said. -"And that is a good deal of a trick." - -One morning when I went in, I found him sitting at his table pressing -the tips of his fingers to his closed eyes. - -"Good morning, Miss Wakely," he said. "These two tools of mine are -rusting out. It's a nuisance just now, with the proof coming." - -I said: "Couldn't I read it to you?" - -"Frankly, I'm afraid not;" he answered. "I belong to the half of mankind -who can not be read to. I _think_ that I couldn't bear it. But you may -try." - -He sat in a deep chair, with his back to the light, and I before him, -with a little table for the proof. I read to him, doing my best to keep -my mind on what I was reading. His bigness, his gentleness, his -abstraction, his humor were like a constant speaking presence, even when -he was silent. - -When I had read for ten minutes, he interrupted me. - -"It's wonderful," he said. "You can do it. I'm trying to get at the -reason. You don't over-emphasize. And yet your voice is so flexible that -you aren't monotonous. And you don't plunge at every sentence, and come -down hard on the first word, and taper off to nothing. If it keeps up, -this is going to make me a terrible grafter, because I can't begin to -pay you for what this will be worth to me." - -"I'll stay as long as I can stand it!" I told him, trying to keep the -happiness out of my eyes and my voice at the same time. - -In a little while, the joyous sensation of what I was doing gave way to -the interest in the reading itself. His book, I found, was a serious -study of work in its relation to human growth. From the Hebraic -conception of work as a curse to the present-day conception of work as -conscious cooperation in creation, in evolution, he was coming down the -line, visiting all nations, entering all industries. - -It was curious that, in those first days there never once passed between -us any word of the great human problems in which we were both so -excludingly interested. I understood that doubtless he had accustomed -himself to saying very little about them, save when he knew that he -would meet understanding. I had been at work for him more than a month -before we ever talked at all, save the casual give-and-take of the day, -and in occasional interludes, like the interludes of herrings and tea. - -One morning we were copying some Chinese reports giving the total wages -earned by men in seventy-year periods, and some totals to indicate their -standards of living. Suddenly he said: - -"Considering our civilization, and our culture and -enlightenment-business, our own figures, proportionately to what we -might make them with our resources, are blacker than the ex-empire's." - -"You can't tell it in totals, though," I said. "You can't indicate in -figures what is lost by low wages, any more than you can measure great -works of genius by efficiency charts." - -"You care about these things?" he asked. - -"More than anything else," I answered. - -After that, he talked to me sometimes about his work. - -"I wish," he said once, "that I knew more about the working women. I'd -like to get some of this off before a group of working women, and see -how they'd take it." - -"I could plan that for you," I said, "if you really mean it." - -He looked at me curiously. "You are a remarkable little person," he -observed. "Are there, then, things that you can't do?" - -I went to see Rose back in the same factory, a little more worn, a -little less hopeful, but still at her work among the girls. She welcomed -the suggestion that he come to speak. He came for the next week's -meeting. - -"Rose," I said, "don't say anything to Mr. Ember about me." - -Before that night came round, something happened. One morning, when Mr. -Ember was going through his mail, he read one letter through twice. - -"This one," he said, "I must take time to answer. My lecture bureau has -gone into bankruptcy." - -"Well," I said, "what of that? You don't need a bureau." - -"It's not that," he said; "I own stock in it." - -At noon he went out. When he came in his face was clear, and he went -back to his proof. As I was leaving that night he spoke abruptly: - -"Miss Wakely," he said, "I am sorry to have to tell you something--I am -indeed. After this week I must not have you any more." - -For this I was utterly unprepared. I looked up at him with all the -terror and despair which filled me. "I'm not doing your work well?" I -tried to say. But--"You're doing my work," he answered, "as I never -hoped to have it done. It isn't that. It isn't only that this failure -leaves me with very little money. There's thirty thousand dollars owing -to lecture and Chautauqua people, and the company hasn't a cent." - -"You mean," I said, "that you will help pay this thirty thousand?" - -"There's no one else," he answered. "I'm the only stockholder who has -anything at all. And the rest have families." - -"Can they compel you to do this?" I asked. It is amazing how the brute -instincts reappear in areas new; to experience. I was civilized enough -in some things, and yet instinctively I asked: "Can they compel you?" - -He merely stood smiling down at me. "Most of the speakers are -twenty-dollar-a-night men," he said. "They can't lose it, you see." - -"I beg your pardon," I said, and went out to the street in a kind of -glory. So he was like this! - -That Saturday night he handed me my pay, with, "Good-by, Miss Wakely. I -can't thank you--I really can't, you know." - -"Good-by, Mr. Ember," I replied cheerfully, and went. - -On Monday morning, when he came into the workroom with his letters I -sat there oiling the typewriter. - -He stared at me. "Miss Wakely," he said in distress, "I must have -muddled it awfully. I wasn't clear--" - -"Yes," I said, "you were clear. But I thought I'd enjoy keeping on with -the proof. May I have a clean cloth for the machine?" - -He came over to the typewriter table, and stood looking down at me. I -dared not look up, because I was worried about my eyes and what they -might have to say. Then he put out his hand, and I gave him mine. - -"I'm afraid I'll get typewriter oil on you," I said, "and it's smelly." - -He went on with the letters without another word. There were two great -envelopes of proof. He never could have got through them alone. - -The night that he spoke to the girls, I went over early and slipped in -the back seat. The hall was filled; I was glad of that. And as soon as -he began speaking I saw that he knew how to talk to them. He was just -talking to them about the fundamental of human growth, and how the -whole industrial struggle was nothing but the assertion of the right of -the workers to growth. He showed this struggle as but one phase of -something as wide as life. - -"You want a better life, don't you?" he said. "You want to enjoy more, -and know more and be more. And the people who can individually get these -things by your toil you are set against.... But what are you working -for? Food and clothes and a little fun? And your own children? I say -that those of you who are working just for these things for yourselves -are almost as bad as those who work for their own luxury.... What then? -What are we working for? Why, to make the world where _all of us_ can -have a better life, and enjoy more, and know more, and be more. And -we've got to do this together. And those of us who are not trying to -raise the standard for _all of us_, whether employers or employees, are -all outlaws together." - -It was wonderful to see how he faced that audience of tired men and -women, and kindled them into human beings. It was wonderful to see the -hope and then the belief and then the courage come quickening in their -eyes, in their faces, in their applause. Afterward they went forward -like one person to meet him, to take his hand. While they were with him, -they became one person. It was almost as if they became, before his -eyes, what he was there to tell them that they could go toward. - -I had meant to slip out of the hall afterward. The last thing that I had -meant to do was to walk down the aisle and put out my hand. Yet when he -had finished, that was what I did. - -"You liked it?" he said to me. - -"I know it!" I told him. - -"Ah, that's it," he answered. "Wait," he added. - -So I waited until they had all spoken with him, and I wondered how any -one could watch them and not understand them. One girl, new in the -factory, came to him: - -"Now you have showed me where I belong in my little life," she said to -him in broken English. "Before, I felt as if I had been born and then -somebody had walked away and left me there. Now I see where I am, after -all." - -Afterward, Rose came to me, and her face was new. "If only we could keep -them where they are now," she said. "But when they get hungry once, they -forget it all." - -Mr. Ember and I went down to the street. "Don't you want to walk home?" -he said to me. And when we had left the push-carts and the noise, he -turned to me in the still street: - -"Now tell me?" he said. "How do you know those girls so well?" - -I answered in genuine surprise. It seemed to me he must know. - -"You!" he exclaimed. "Worked in a factory? At what? And when?" - -I told him some of the things that I had done. He listened, and had no -idea in the world that it was he who began it all for me. He smiled with -me at my year with Miss Manners and Miss Spot. "And now what?" he asked. - -"Now I'm secretary to you," I reminded him. - -"You are not," he said, "you're an unpaid slave, being exploited for -all you're worth, and you ought to be on strike this minute. Seriously," -he added, "I can't go on this way. Don't you see that I can't allow it?" - -"I beg your pardon," I said--and indeed I had hardly heard what he had -been saying, for I was thinking: Here--walking along the street with -me--John Ember, John Ember, _John Ember_! - -"I'm saying," he observed, "that I discharge you from to-night." - -"Look here, Mr. Ember," I said, "you can't discharge me--don't you -understand! I've made up my mind to stay with you." - -"Oh!" he exclaimed. "So you've made up your mind?" - -"You mustn't be so selfish," I explained it. "You must think a little of -me. Here you are, doing a big, fine work, work that interests me more -than anything in the world. I've no other chance to help on, except -through you and Rose. Why do you want to drive me out?" - -"But, my child," he said, "if you don't mind the practicality of the -question, what are you living on?" - -"Oh, that!" I said. "I pay my way by making Mrs. Bingy's lace." - -He was silent for a moment. "You really want to?" he asked. "It isn't -pity?" - -"I really want to," I told him. "That's why I'm going to!" - -He drew a deep breath. "Then that's settled," he said; "I own up to you. -I didn't know how on earth I was going to get on without you!" - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -So there went on that relation for which this age has no name of its -own: the relation of the man, as worker, and the "out-family" woman who -is his helper. It is a new thing, for a new day. There has never been a -time when its need was not recognized; but usually, if this need was -filled at all, it had to be filled clandestinely. It used to be the -courtezans who had the brains, or, at any rate, who used them. The -"protected" woman, sunk in domestic drudgery, or in fashion and folly, -or exquisitely absorbed in the rearing of her children, could not often -share in her husband's work. And, too, in the new order, she is not -necessary to share in her husband's work, for she is to have work of her -own, sometimes like his and sometimes quite other. The function of the -"out-family" woman is clearly defined. And the relationship will be -nothing that the wife of the future will fear. - -It happened that I loved this man to whom I assumed the relationship of -helper, and that I had loved him before I began to share his work. But -it is true that, as the days went on, I began to dwell more on our work -and less on my loving him. It was not that I loved him less. As I worked -near him, and came to know him better, mind and heart, I loved him more -but there was no time to think about that! All day we worked at his -proof, his lectures, his correspondence with men and women, bent, as he -was bent, on great issues. Gradually our hours of work lengthened, began -earlier, lasted into the dusk; and I had the sense of definite service -to a great end. Most of all I had this when I answered the letters from -the workers themselves, for then it seemed to me that I went close to -the moving of great tides. - - - "You speak for us--you say the thing we are too dumb to say. Maybe - you are the one who is going to make people listen while we - breathe down here under their feet, when we can breathe at all." - - -Letters like this, misspelled, half in a foreign tongue, delivered by -hand or coming across the continent, were a part of the work which had -become my life. And all the breathlessness, the tremor, the delicious -currents of those first days were less real than this new relation, -deeper than anything which those first days had dreamed. - -One day I had forgotten to go to luncheon and, some time after two, -Torchido being absent to lecture at a young ladies' seminary, Mr. Ember -came bringing me a tray himself. - -"If any one was to do that you ought to have let me," I cried. - -"Why?" he demanded. "Now, why? You mean because you're a woman!" - -"Yes," I admitted, "I suppose that's what I did mean." - -"You ought to be ashamed of that," he said, "you cave-woman. I don't -believe you can cook, anyway." - -"No," I owned, "I can't cook. And I don't want to cook." - -"Yet you automatically assume the role the moment it presents itself," -he charged. "It's always amazing. A man will pick up a woman's -handkerchief, help her up a step which she can get up as well as he, -walk on the outside of the walk to protect her from lord knows what--and -yet the minute that a dish rattles anywhere, he retires, in content and -lets her do the whole thing. We're a wondrous lot." - -"Give us another million years," I begged. "We're coming along." - -He served me, and ate something himself. And this was the first time -that we had broken bread together since that morning at the Dew Drop -Inn, when I had ordered salt pork and a piece of pie. Obviously, this -was the time to tell him.... My heart began to beat. I played with the -moment, thinking as I had thought a hundred times, how I would tell him. -Suppose I said: "Do you imagine that this is the first time we have -eaten together?" Or, "Do you remember the last time we sat at table?" -Or, "Have you ever wondered what became of Cosma Wakely?" I discarded -them all, and just then I heard him saying: - -"I like very well to see you eat, Mademoiselle Secretary. You do it with -the tips of your fingers." - -"Truly?" I cried. And suddenly my eyes brimmed with tears. I remembered -Cossy Wakely and her peaches. - -"What is it?" he asked quickly. - -But I only said: "Oh, I was just thinking about the 'infinite -improvability of the human race'!" - -Then Lena was summoned home, and she begged me to go with her. - -She had been for three months at Mrs. Bingy's, and a drawer of my bureau -was filled with dainty clothes that, with Mrs. Bingy's help, she had -made. We had contributed what we could, and all day long and for long -evenings, she had sat contentedly at her work. But she kept putting off -home-going, and one night she had told me the reason. - -"Cossy," she said, "you remember how it is there to Luke's folks' -house--everybody scolding and jawing. And I know I'll be just like 'em. -And it kind of seems as if, if I could stay here, where it's still and -decent and good-natured, it might make some difference--to _it_." - -On the morning that the message came to her, Mrs. Carney had come into -Mr. Ember's workroom. Mr. Ember was out. A small portrait exhibit was -being made at one of the galleries and, having promised, he had gone off -savagely to see it on the exhibit's last day. It was then that Mrs. -Bingy telephoned, in spasms of excitement over the telegram. Luke's -mother had fallen and hurt her hip. Lena must come home. - -"And, Cossy!" Mrs. Bingy shouted, "Lena thought--Lena wondered--Lena -wants you should go with her." - -I understood. Lena dreaded to face that household after her absence, -even though she was returning with her precious work. - -"I'll go," I told her; "I'll be there in an hour." - -When I turned, Mrs. Carney sat leaning a little toward me, with an -expression in her face that I did not know. - -"Cosma," she said, "I want to tell you something--while John Ember is -away. I have wanted you to know." - -She had beautifully colored, and she was intensely grave. - -"I've taken it for granted, dear," she said, "that you must know that I -love him." - -I stood staring down at her. "Mr. Ember?" I said, "Why, no! No!" - -"Well, neither does he know," she said, "and I do not mean that he ever -shall. I should of course be ashamed of loving Mr. Carney." - -"Then why--why--" I began and stopped. - -"Why do we keep on living together?" she asked. "I haven't the courage. -And I have no property. And I have no way to earn my living--now. -Cosma--I'm caught, bound. To love John Ember has made life bearable to -me. Can you understand?" - -Then she kissed me. "Cosma!" she said, "I'm glad that you know. I've -wanted you to know. For I was afraid that you had guessed, and that it -might make a difference to you ... when he tells you." - -"Tells me...." I repeated. "Tells me...." - -The blood came beating in my face and in my throat. Seeing this, she -spoke on quietly about herself. We were sitting so when Mr. Ember came -home. And I was struck by the exquisite dignity and beauty of her manner -to him. She was like some one looking at him from some near-by plane, -knowing that she might not touch him or speak to him--not because it was -forbidden, but because they themselves were the law. - -Then I looked at him, and I saw that he was looking at me strangely. -There was a curious searching, meditative quality in his look which -somehow terrified me. I sprang up. - -"Mr. Ember," I said, "they want me to go home--there has been a telegram -to a friend. I want to go with her. She needs me...." - -"Where is 'home'?" he asked only. - -"In the country," I answered, and had on my wraps and was at the door, -"I'll be back to-morrow," I told him. - -Mrs. Carney had risen. - -"Cosma!" she said clearly. "Wait. I'll drive you home." - -As she spoke my name, my eyes flew to his. He was looking at me with a -kind of soft brilliance in his face, and the surprise of some certainty. -Then I knew that something had happened to make him know, and that now -he remembered. - -I ran out and down the walk before Mrs. Carney. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -In the late afternoon light, Katytown looked to me beautiful: the -weather-beaten station, the empty platform, the long, dusty main street, -which informally became the country road without much change of habit. -Lena and I took what Katytown called "the rig," and drove out to Luke's -father's farm. - -We went into the kitchen, and Luke's mother, helpless now in her chair, -broke out at us shrilly: "Well, and about time, you good-for-nothing -high-fly!" she welcomed her daughter-in-law. - -Luke, eating his supper, shuffled up from the table and came toward her. -Lena amazed me. She went to him and kissed him, not with a manner of -apology, but of abstraction. Then she opened her suit-case. "Look, -Luke," she said. "Look, Mother," and hardly heard the mother's talk, -flowing on. Luke's mother watched her, lowering. Luke commented -awkwardly, and went off to the barn. Lena turned to the sink, filled -with unwashed dishes. The clatter of these, of faultfinding, the murk of -steam received her. But she moved among these with a new dignity. It -seemed as if life would have let Lena be so much, if only somebody had -understood in time. - -I left her, and walked toward my own home. But for that morning in -Twiney's pasture, six years ago, I should be back there now, in Lena's -place. For me, somebody had understood in time. Before I knew it, I had -broken into swift running along the country road. I must somehow make -everybody understand in time. - -The house lay quiet in the dreaming sunshine. I stepped to the open -kitchen door. They were at supper. My mother pushed back her chair and -came running to the door. - -"Cossy!" she cried. "Oh, Cossy! I mean Cosma." - -"You call me whatever you want to," I said, and kissed her. - -Bert and Henny came roaring out at me. They filled the kitchen with -their bodies and voices. Father kissed me. They sat with me, while -Mother brought me some supper. - -"Flossy dress, sis," Henny offered easily. "Day after to-morrow," he -said, when I asked him when he was going back to his work. "We've got a -committee to meet with a committee of the traction folks. We may be hot -in it in another week." And when I asked, in what, he added: "Oh, we've -got some fines and dockings and cuts in wages to fix up, and they're -trying to make us pay more for our dynamite--you wouldn't understand." - -I turned and looked at my brothers. For some reason, never until that -moment had it occurred to me to count them in with those of us who were -dreaming new dreams for labor. They had been simply my brothers, ugly, -irritable, teasing. But they were laborers with whom, as strangers, I -could make common cause. Bert's great figure and dead eyes and -brutalized mouth were the figure and eyes and mouth of "The Puddler," -which I had lately gone to an art gallery to see! - -"I tell you," Father said, "there's new times coming for you fellows, -or I miss my guess. I say it every day when I read the papers." - -So then we talked, Father and Henry and Bert and I. For the first time -in our years together, we spoke of these matters and listened to one -another. This was talk such as would have been impossible while I stayed -there, either idle or drudging. Now I was a person, and we could -exchange impressions. It came to me what family meetings might be, if -each one were engaged in some happy, _chosen_ toil, with its interests -to exchange. And warm in me came welling and throbbing an understanding -of them all, as fellow human beings, fellow workers, a relationship -which the sense of family had hitherto obstructed and bound. - -Presently Father and the boys went away. - -"Let's sit down a while and talk," Mother said to me, turning her back -on the dishes. "Shall we go in the parlor?" she asked. - -I voted against the parlor, and we sat in the kitchen. - -"You've never once come up to the city, Mother," I said, "since I've -been there. Won't you come some time? We could have a drive and a play." - -"I've always wanted to go to the city again," she said; "I've always -wanted to be there Sunday, and go to church in a big church." She looked -out to see if Father was back. "Cossy," she said, "since you've been up -there, have you seen much of any silverware?" - -"Silverware?" I repeated. - -"Not knives and forks. I mean pitchers--and coffee pots. I s'pose the -houses you went to must use them common." And when I had answered, "I'd -like to see some, some time, before I die," she said. "And I'd like to -see a hothouse, with roses in winter." - -"Come on then," I said. "We'll find some, Mother." - -"The fare up and back is just exactly the fire-insurance money for three -years," she said. "I always think of that." - -Later, she went to baking pies, against the morrow. And she scolded -somewhat about the lamp wick that was too short, and the green wood on -the fire and I went and hugged her, merely because I seemed to know so -well what had always made her cross. For here was the same condition -which we fought for the other workers: badly remunerated toil, which was -not the real expression of the toiler; and no recreation. - -That night I went up to my little old room, and nothing was changed. The -little tintype of me was still stuck in the mirror. "Shall I sleep with -you?" Mother said. I lay with my hand in hers, immersed in a new -knowledge. - -My family was dear to me--not on the old hypocritical basis which would -have pretended to a nearness that it did not feel. But dear through the -only real basis, a basis which we had persistently baffled and inhibited -all the while that we lived together: human understanding. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -I had planned to be back in the city by noon the next day. But there was -something that I wanted to do before I left Katytown. I wanted to go -into the little grove which, far more than the up-stairs place where I -slept, had always seemed to me to be "my room." I went there after our -early breakfast. The place was considerably thinned, but it was still -sanctuary. - -When I reached the fence by the road, I went over it in the old way. As -I went, I was conscious that some one, somewhere, was singing. As I -struck into the road, the low humming which I had heard was mounting. -And then it lifted suddenly into the words of its song. The man who was -singing it had just passed, and he had his face set from me. But I knew -him, as I knew his song. Then the time and the hour swept over me, and I -sang with him: - - - "Oh, Mother dear, Jerusalem, Thy joys when shall I see...." - - -He wheeled, and stood still in the road and let me come to him. And the -song broke off, and he was saying: - -"Cosma! Cosma Wakely! I've come to scold you!" - -"It was such fun!" I pleaded. - -"But so to take in a near-sighted old gentleman who goes out of his mind -trying to remember any of the thousand faces he sees in a year of -lectures--ah, it was too bad. Why didn't you tell me?" - -"I was trying to get made over," I said. "And I'm not made over yet. You -had no right to find me out! How did you find me out?" - -"I went to that gallery," he explained, "yesterday. And there I saw -Gerald Massy's portrait of you--and underneath he has, you know, set -'Cosma.' I have never forgotten that name--how could I? So I came -galloping home to accuse you. And there sat Mrs. Carney calling you -'Cosma,' before my eyes. What I can't understand," he ended savagely, -"is how I can have been so dumb. Now, tell me--tell me!" - -We were walking in the road, which had somehow assumed a docile and -appeased look, like something which we were stroking as it was meant to -be stroked. And I told him the rest, beginning with the hour that he had -left me in Twiney's pasture. And so we came to Twiney's pasture again. - -We broke through the wet sedge, and went over the fence as we had gone -that other morning. And presently we stood at the top of the hill from -which he had first shown me the whole world. - -Then I did my best to tell him. "Mr. Ember!" I said, "all the little bit -I've been able to make out of myself, you've made. I want to tell you -that--and I'm not telling it at all!" I cried. - -He stood as he had stood before, with the sky's great blue behind him. -And he said: - -"Then just don't bother with it. Besides, I've something far more -important to try to say to you--the best I know how. Cosma--will you -marry me?" - -In those first days, I had sometimes dreamed of his saying that--dreamed -it hopelessly; but sometimes, too, I had sunk warm in the thought of it, -as if there all thought had come home. Yet now, when he actually said -it, it came to me with a great shock. And out of the fulness of what I -suddenly read in my heart, I answered him: - -"Why, I can't marry you," I said. "I can't give up my work with you!" - -He looked down at me gravely, and he made me the answer of all men. - -"Give up the work! But the work together is one of the reasons why I -love you." - -"I can see that," I said. "And the work together is one of the reasons I -love you. But----" - -He put out his arms then, and took me. - -"You said you loved me!" he said. - -"I do," I said, "why of course I do----" - -And when he kissed me it was as if nothing new had happened, but only -something which was already ours. - -"Then what is it," he asked, "but you for me, and me for you?" - -And I cried, "Oh, don't you see? That after being what I've been to -you--knowing your work and your thought--I can't stop it and be just -your wife? I can't exchange this for looking after your house and -ordering your food, and sending off the laundry and keeping your clothes -mended?" - -"But, my child----" he began. - -"I know what you mean," I told him, "you think it wouldn't be that way. -You think we'd go on as we are. We wouldn't--we wouldn't. All those -things have to be done--I'd be the one to do them. It would be I who -would begin to play myself false, I who would begin to do all the little -housewifely things that other women do. It would get me--it would eat up -my time and my real work with you--I tell you it would get me in the -end! It gets every woman!" - -"Well," he said again, "what then?" - -I saw his eyes, understanding, humorous, tender. "Don't!" I cried; -"it's almost got me now--when you look at me like that." - -"Well," he said again, "what then?" - -"Oh, don't you see?" I cried, "I've got myself to fight. I care now for -big issues--for life and death and the workers--for the future more than -for now. We are working for them--you and I. I will not let myself care -only for getting your food and keeping the house tidy!" - -He looked away over the fields, and by his eyes I thought that now I had -lost him for good and all. But he only said: - -"To think what we have done to love--all of us. Of course I know that -the possibility is exactly what you say it is." - -"Not the possibility," I said, "the inevitability. Look at all of them -down there--Mother, Lena, Luke's mother, every woman in Katytown--and -most of them everywhere else. They're all prostituted to housework. -Don't let me do it! You've saved me this far--you've helped me to be the -little that I've made of myself. Now help me! And," I added, "you'll -_have_ to help me. For I want to do it!" - -He put out his hand, not like a lover, but like a comrade. And when I -gave him mine, he shook it, like a friend. - -"I will help you," he said. "Here's my hand on it. And it strikes me -that this is about the most poignant appeal that a woman can make to a -man. To his chivalry, if you like!" - -And then I said the rest: "And you must see--I'm not a mother-woman. I -should love children--to have them, to give them every free chance to -grow. But it would be the same with them: their sewing, their mending, a -good deal of the care of them--I don't know about it, and I shouldn't -like it. I shouldn't be wise about their feeding, or the care of them if -they were sick. And as for saying that the knowledge comes with the -physical birth of the child, that's sheer nonsense." - -"Oh, utter nonsense," he agreed. "Yes, I know you're not a -'mother-woman,' in the sense that means a nurse. Many women are not who -are afraid to acknowledge it. But you'd give strength and health to -your children--you're fitted to bring them into the world--you'd love -them, and all children." - -And this was thrillingly true for me. "What I really want to do," I -said, "is to help make the world a home for all children--to make -life--and their birth--normal and healthful and right, my own children -included." - -"You're the new factor that we've got to deal with, Cosma," he said, -"the mother-to-the-race woman. A woman whose passion for the children of -the race isn't necessarily to be confused with a passion for keeping -their ears clean. It's something that we've all got to work out -together...." He broke off, and cried out to me, "Cosma! Are you willing -that we shall let this beat us?" - -I looked up at him. - -"It's something that has to be worked out," he repeated. "All that -you've been saying--it's got to be worked out for all women. Well, it's -not going to be done by every woman funking it, and staying unmarried." - -He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. - -"Are you sure," he said, "that I understand? That from the bottom of my -heart I know and feel what you've been saying? And that I'll do the best -I can to help you work it out?" - -"Yes," I said, "I'm sure of that." - -I was intensely sure of him--sure that we looked at life with the same -love for the same kind of living. - -"Will you come?" he cried. "Will you come and face it with me? And do -your best, somehow, to work it out with me?" - -[Illustration: "Will you come and face it with me?"] - -His arms drew me, and in them was home. And for my life I could not have -told whether I went to meet his challenge, or whether I went because we -were each other's in the ancient way. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING*** - - -******* This file should be named 51579.txt or 51579.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/1/5/7/51579 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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