fe, to see him in his convalescence go out to a ten-hour
day of racking work. "I ain't fooled, though. I done what I could, but
why won't his father fight for better hours and living conditions? He
sits there and lets the boss use his boy worse than he'd use a machine.
He's got the backbone of a chocolate eclair, that man." And then she
would take up a copy of the daily "Worker" and become absorbed in the
vision of the successful class struggle and a world set free.

"What shall we have for dinner to-night?" she had smilingly asked
Hertha. "Shall we celebrate together with an Irish stew and ice cream
and then go to the movies?"

"But this is your evening for the Y. W. C. A.," Hertha answered.

The smile left Kathleen's face. "I'm through there," she said. "It's not
for me."

Hertha wanted to know more, but she was reticent with questions. As it
happens, however, the silent person learns more of another's life than
one who shows a voluble sympathy, and Kathleen was soon telling her
friend that all girls' clubs and Christian Associations were nothing but
charities; that she could have nothing to do with a charity herself, and
that, had it not been for a moment's temptation, offered by a friend,
she would never have entered the class. It was the exercise that she
needed and the marching to music had been the best part. "And it's
grand," she explained, "if only for an hour a week to be living as the
Lord intended you with your legs apart." But this morning she had been
giving massage to a rich uptown customer. "And after I had pommeled off
the two pounds she'd gained at a twelve-course dinner the night before,
she begins to tell me of her charities. 'I like best to help the working
girl,' she says, 'and I gave my mite to their new building, but I'm
troubled at the obstinacy of the young women in refusing to become
servants. They have a false pride in the matter.' I kept my mouth shut,
for I couldn't afford to lose a good customer, but I was that mad to
think I might have been taking money off her as a gift that I stopped in
at the office and told Miss Jones I should quit. 'Is that so, Kathleen?'
she says quietly. 'It is for you to decide.' And then she asks: 'And how
is Miss Ogilvie?' She always calls me Kathleen. Not that I mind it, but
I'm fifteen years older than you, and Miss Jones needn't 'Miss Ogilvie'
you to me. I don't wonder she does, though, for you wear your clothes as
though you had always lived in a palace,