t she wondered if such
a change were possible with all women, herself included. She gazed
absently at the pale landscape past which the train was flying. The
conductor had to touch her arm before he could arouse her attention,
when he asked for her ticket. Then she looked at him vacantly, and he
had to repeat his "Ticket, please."

Maria opened her pocket-book and said, mechanically, the name of the
first station which came into her head, "Ridgewood." Ridgewood was a
small city about fifteen miles distant. She had sometimes been there
shopping. She gave the conductor a five-dollar bill, and he went
away, murmuring something about the change. When he returned with the
rebate-slip and the change, he had to touch her shoulder again to
arrest her attention.

"Change, miss," said the conductor, and "you can get ten cents back
on this at the station."

Maria took the change and the slip and put them in her pocket-book,
and the conductor passed on with a quick, almost imperceptible
backward glance at her. Maria sat very still. The child who had got
on at Amity began to wail again, and its outcries filled the whole
car. To Maria it seemed like the natural outburst of an atmosphere
overcharged with woe, and the impotent rage and regret of the whole
race, as a cloud is charged with electricity. She felt that she
herself would like to burst into a wild wail, and struggle and
wrestle against fate with futile members, as the child fought against
its mother with its fat legs in shoes too large, and its bemittened
hands. However, she began to get a certain comfort from the rapid
motion. She continued to stare out of the window at the landscape,
which fast disappeared under the gathering shadows. The car lamps
were lit. Maria still looked, however, out of the window; the lights
in the house windows, and red and green signal-lights, gave her a
childish interest. She forgot entirely about herself. She turned her
back upon herself and her complex situation of life with infinite
relief. She did not wonder what she would do when she reached
Ridgewood. She did not think any more of herself. It was as if she
had come into a room of life without any looking-glasses, and she was
no longer visible to her own consciousness. She did not look at the
other passengers. All that was evident to her of the existence of any
in the car besides herself was the unceasing wail of the child, and
its mother's half-soothing, half-scolding voice. She did not