s. She suddenly understood the helplessness of the
poor and the weak, especially the poor and weak women. What could they
do against this organized iniquity? Against the careless and cruel
world? It was all right for gentlewomen in gentle environment to keep to
the old ideals of womanhood--to stay at home and delegate their
citizenship to the men. But those who were sucked into the vortex of the
rough world, what of these? Were they not right in their attempts to
organize, to rebel, to fight in the open, to secure a larger share of
freedom and power?

But if these were Myra's feelings and thoughts--a sense of outrage, of
being trampled on--they were little things compared with the agony in
Rhona's breast. A growing and much-pleased crowd surrounded her,
flinging remarks:

"Lock-steps for yours! Hello, Mamie! Oh, you kid! Now will you be good!
Carrie, go home and wash the dishes!"

And one boy darted up and snapped the placard from her waist. The crowd
laughed, but Rhona was swallowing bitter tears.

They passed down Broadway a block or two, and then turned west.
Brilliant light from the shop windows fell upon the moving scene--the
easy-going men, the slouching, shrill boys, and the girl with her pale
set face and uncertain steps. All the world was going home to supper,
and Rhona felt strangely that she was now an exile--torn by the roots
from her warm life to go on a lonely adventure against the powers of
darkness. She had lost her footing in the world and was slipping into
the night. She felt singularly helpless; her very rage and rebellion
made her feel frail and unequal to the task. To be struck down in the
street! To be insulted by a crowd! She had hard work to hold her head
erect and keep back the bitter sobs.

Up the darkened street they went, the crowd gradually falling away. And
suddenly they paused before the two green lamps of the new
station-house, and then in a moment they had vanished through the
doorway.

Myra rushed up, panting, to a policeman who stood on the steps.

"I want to go in--I'm with _her_."

"Can't do it, lady. She's under arrest."

"Not she," cried Myra. "The man."

"Oh, we'll see. You run along--keep out of trouble!"

Myra turned, confused, weak. She questioned a passer-by about the
location of Ninth Street. "Up Broadway--seven or eight blocks!" She
started; she hurried; her feet were winged with desperate fear. What
could be done? How help Rhona? Surely Joe--Joe could do somet