st them."

Thus they talked, intimately, sweetly, and at last the elder woman
kissed the younger good-night.

"But, dear, you've been crying!"

"Oh, I'm so glad to be here!" sobbed Myra. "So glad to be with you!"

And even then she had a sense of the greatness and wonder of that day;
how new and untapped forces in her nature were emerging; how the whole
seeming of life--"These shows of the night and day"--was changing for
her; how life was deepening down to its bitter roots, roots bitter but
miraculously sheathed in crystalline springs; in sweet waters, in beauty
and love and mystery. It was the finding of her own soul--a power great
enough to endure tragedy and come forth to a richer laughter and a wiser
loveliness. Only thus does life reveal its meanings and its miracles,
and prove that it is an adventure high and fine, ever tending higher,
ever more enriched with faith and marvelous strength, and that mirth
that meets the future with an expectant smile.

So thinking, so feeling, she grew drowsier, sank deeper--her body tired
in every muscle, in every bone--her mind unable to keep awake; and so
she faded into the pure rest of sleep.

XI

THE WORKHOUSE

That next day was as a dream to Rhona. Not until evening did it become
real. Breakfast was brought to her cell, but she did not taste it. Next
she was led out by a policeman to the street and packed in the patrol
wagon with eight other women. The morning was gray, with a hard sifting
snow, and as the wagon bumped over cobblestones, Rhona breathed deep of
the keen air.

The ride seemed without end; but next she was in a ferry; and then,
last, was hurried into a long gray building on Blackwells Island.

Her cell was fairly large, and contained two cots, one against each
wall. She was left disconsolately alone, numb, in despair, and moving
about in a dream.

But after supper she found herself locked in with another woman. She sat
down on the edge of her cot, in the dim light of the room, and with a
sharp glance, half fear, half curiosity, regarded her room-mate. This
other was a woman of possibly thirty years, with sallow cheeks, bright
burning eyes, and straggly hair. She stood before the little wall
mirror, apparently examining herself. Suddenly she turned:

"What you looking at, kid?"

Rhona averted her eyes.

"I didn't mean--"

"Say," said the other, "ain't I the awful thing? Not a rat or a puff or
a dab of rouge allowed in these here premis