tared about her blindly.

"Never mind," she decided, "I'm going to see more of this!"

And the next day she presented herself at suffrage headquarters.

"I want to work," she said to a girl at a desk. The girl looked up at
her busily.

"All right, go to that table," she answered. And at a long oak table,
one of a dozen women and girls, Ethel folded envelopes and addressed
them for about three hours. Down at the end, two girl companions
chatted and laughed at their labour. But the rest were just busy.
"Hand me those envelopes, if you please." And so it was all through the
room. She came back the next morning and the next; and as she worked,
her expression was grim. "It isn't their fault," she decided. "They
want the vote, they don't want me."

And she turned forlornly back to the work of moving up to her new
apartment.

The first of May was drawing near, and she saw signs of restlessness, as
thousands of New Yorkers prepared to change their quarters. Moving,
always moving. Did they never stop in one place and make it a home?
The big building in which Ethel lived took on an impersonal air, as
though saying, "What do I care? I'm all concrete, with good hard steel
inside of that." What a queer place for people's homes! People moving
in and out! Curiously she probed into its life. She had long ago made
friends with the wife of the superintendent, and through her Ethel
collected bits about these many families so close together and yet so
apart; all troubles kept strictly out of sight, with the freight
elevator for funerals, cool looks and never a word of greeting. "Keep
off," writ clear on every face.

"It isn't real, this living! It can't last!" she exclaimed to herself.
"They'll have to work out something better than this--something, oh,
much homier!" She thought of the old frame house in Ohio. "That's
gone," she declared, with a swallow.

Her acquaintance with young Mrs. Grewe was still the one bright spot at
such times. When Ethel felt blue she would go upstairs to the sunny new
home that was to be hers; and there the blithe welcome she received
restored her own belief in herself. Mrs. Grewe would often lead her to
talk of her home in Ohio, the eager dreams and plans of her girlhood;
and on her side, the young widow gave pictures of life in London and
Paris as she had seen it so many times. They still shopped together
occasionally.

But one afternoon about six o'clock, as Ethel's car drew up at the door
and