room; saw once more
the sleeping men, the toiling Giotto, the groups of girls. Something
tragic hung in the air. She seemed to breathe bigger, gain in stature,
expand. She was going to meet the test of these newer women. She was
going to identify herself with their vast struggle.

And looking once more, she sought Joe, but could not find him. How
pleased he would be to know that she was doing this--doing it largely
for him--because she wanted to smooth out that gray face, and lay her
cheek against its lost wrinkles, and put her arm about his neck, and
heal him.

Tears dimmed her eyes. She took Rhona's arm and they stepped out into
the bleak street. Wind whipped their faces like quick-flicked knives.
They walked close together.

"Is it far?" asked Myra.

"Quite far. It's over on Great Jones Street!"

And so Myra went, quite lost in the cyclone of life.

VIII

THE ARREST

They gained the corner of Great Jones Street--one of those dim byways of
trade that branch off from the radiant avenues. As they turned in the
street, they met a bitter wind that was blowing the pavement clean as
polished glass, and the dark and closing day was set off sharply by the
intense lamps and shop-lights. Here and there at a window a clerk
pressed his face against the cold pane and looked down into the
cheerless twilight, and many toilers made the hard pavement echo with
their fast steps as they hurried homeward.

"There they are," said Rhona.

Two girls, both placarded, came up to them. One of them, a thin little
skeleton, pitiably ragged in dress, with hollow eyes and white face, was
coughing in the cuff of the wind. She was plainly a consumptive--a
little wisp of a girl. She spoke brokenly, with a strong Russian accent.

"It's good to see you yet, Rhona. I get so cold my bones ready to
crack."

She shivered and coughed. Rhona spoke softly.

"Fannie, you go right home, and let your mother give you a good drink of
hot lemonade with whiskey in it. And take a foot-bath, too."

Fannie coughed again.

"Don't you tell me, Rhona. Look out for yourself. There gets trouble yet
on this street."

Myra drew nearer, a dull feeling in her breast. Rhona spoke easily:

"None of the men said anything or did anything, did they?"

"Well, they say things; they make angry faces, and big fists, Rhona.
Better be careful."

"Where are they?"

"By Zandler's doorway. They get afraid of the cold."

Rhona laughed softly, and put an ar