ng, born and unborn,
and where women were weeping with bruised breasts.

CHAPTER XVI

Her vague, unreal existence continued. It seemed in some previous
life-time that Billy had gone away, that another life-time would have to
come before he returned. She still suffered from insomnia. Long nights
passed in succession, during which she never closed her eyes. At
other times she slept through long stupors, waking stunned and numbed,
scarcely able to open her heavy eyes, to move her weary limbs. The
pressure of the iron band on her head never relaxed. She was poorly
nourished. Nor had she a cent of money. She often went a whole day
without eating. Once, seventy-two hours elapsed without food passing
her lips. She dug clams in the marsh, knocked the tiny oysters from the
rocks, and gathered mussels.

And yet, when Bud Strothers came to see how she was getting along, she
convinced him that all was well. One evening after work, Tom came, and
forced two dollars upon her. He was terribly worried. He would like to
help more, but Sarah was expecting another baby. There had been slack
times in his trade because of the strikes in the other trades. He did
not know what the country was coming to. And it was all so simple. All
they had to do was see things in his way and vote the way he voted. Then
everybody would get a square deal. Christ was a Socialist, he told her.

"Christ died two thousand years ago," Saxon said.

"Well?" Tom queried, not catching her implication.

"Think," she said, "think of all the men and women who died in those
two thousand years, and socialism has not come yet. And in two thousand
years more it may be as far away as ever. Tom, your socialism never did
you any good. It is a dream."

"It wouldn't be if--" he began with a flash of resentment.

"If they believed as you do. Only they don't. You don't succeed in
making them."

"But we are increasing every year," he argued.

"Two thousand years is an awfully long time," she said quietly.

Her brother's tired face saddened as he noted. Then he sighed:

"Well, Saxon, if it's a dream, it is a good dream."

"I don't want to dream," was her reply. "I want things real. I want them
now."

And before her fancy passed the countless generations of the stupid
lowly, the Billys and Saxons, the Berts and Marys, the Toms and Sarahs.
And to what end? The salt vats and the grave. Mercedes was a hard and
wicked woman, but Mercedes was right. The stupid must alwa