ensely--till Eleanore shot
another bolt.

"Smile on, funny one," she said. "You'll be in line yourself in a year."

"I will not be in line!"

"I wonder." She looked at me in a curious way. The mirth went slowly out
of her eyes. "There are so many queer new ideas crowding in all around
us," she said. "And I know you, Billy, oh, so well--so much better than
you know yourself. I know that when you once feel a thing you're just
the kind to go into it hard. I'm not speaking of suffrage now--that's
only one nice little part. I mean this whole big radical movement--all
the kind of thing your friend Joe Kramer stood for." She put her arms
about my neck. "Don't get too radical, husband mine--you're so nice and
funny now, my love."

I regarded her anxiously:

"Has this parade gone to your head--or has Sue been talking to you
again?"

"I lunched with Sue----"

"I knew it! And now she's coming here to supper--bringing men paraders!"

"And they'll all be rabidly hungry," said Eleanore with a sudden change.
She went quickly in to see the cook and left me to grim meditation.

I a radical? I smiled. And my slight uneasiness passed away, as I
thought about my sister.

CHAPTER II

Poor old Sue. What queer friends she had, what a muddled life compared
to ours. What a vague confused development, jumping from one idea to
another, never seeing any job through, forever starting all over again
with the same feverish absorption in the next new radical fad. High-brow
dramatics, the settlement movement, the post-impressionists, socialism,
votes for women, one thing after the other pell mell. She would work
herself all up, live hard, talk, organize, think and feel till her
nerves went all to pieces, and then she would come to us for a rest and
laugh at us for our restfulness and at herself for the state she was in.
That was one thing at least she had learned--to laugh at herself--she
could be deliciously humorous. And Eleanore, meeting her on that ground,
would quiet her and steady her down.

We had grown very fond of Sue. We knew her life was not easy at home.
Alone over there with poor old Dad and feeling herself anchored down,
she would still at intervals rebel--against his sticking to his dull
job, against her own dependence, against the small monthly allowance
which without my father's knowledge they still had from me.

"Let me earn my own living!" she would exclaim. "Why shouldn't I? I'm
twenty-six--and I'm working h