alk about it enough the men will give them
their rights, an' let 'em vote. I'm an old woman, an' I never had much
book-learnin', but I'm thinkin' one like me son Sammy's wife has all the
rights she needs wit'out the votin'. She goes out worrkin', same's me
son Sammy, day in, day out. She says Sammy could support _her_ good
enough, but she won't raise her childern in a teniment, along wit' th'
low companions. Me son Sammy, he has it harrd these days. He'd not be
able to pay for such a grrand flat as this, in a dacint, quiet
neighborhood, an' so Martha turrns to, an' lends a hand. An' wance, when
me son Sammy was sick, an' out av a job entirely, Martha, she run the
whole concern herself. She wouldn't let me son Sammy give up, or get
down-hearted, like he mighta done. She said it was her _right_ to care
for us all, an' him, too, bein' he was down an' out, like he was. It
seems to me that's fairrly all the rights anny woman'd want--to look out
for four childern, an' a man, an' a mother-in-law. But if Martha wants
to vote, too, why, I'm thinkin' she will."

It was particularly encouraging to Claire, just at this time, to view
Martha in the light of one who did not know the meaning of the word
fail, for Mrs. Slawson had assured her that if she would give up all
attempt to find employment on her own account, she, Mrs. Slawson, felt
she could safely promise to get her "a job that would be satisfacktry
all round, only one must be a little pationate."

But a week, ten days, had gone by, since Martha announced she had _an
idea_, and still the idea had not materialized. Meanwhile, Claire had
ample time to unpack her trunk and settle her belongings about her, so
"the pretty lady's room" took on a look of real comfort, and the
children never passed the door without pausing before the threshold,
waiting with bated breath for some wonderful chance that would give
them a "peek" into the enchanted chamber. As a matter of fact, the
transformation was effected with singularly few "properties." Some good
photographs tastefully framed in plain, dark wood. A Baghdad rug left
over from her college days, some scraps of charming old textiles, and
such few of the precious home trifles as could be safely packed in her
trunk. There was a daguerreotype of her mother, done when she was a
girl. "As old-fashioned as your grandmother's hoopskirt," Martha called
it. A sampler wrought by some ancient great-aunt, both aunt and sampler
long since yellowed