rity, he left the room.

In a moment Sophie had thrown off the power.

"Sisters," she cried, "down below are the 'Parisian' girls, waiting for
us. Will you be scabs? Will you take their work?"

"We'll pull down the shop," came from her adherents.

"No, you don't," came from Annie Black. "Those 'Parisian' sheenies can
stay out if they want for all me. I stop here."

"Oh!" Sophie cried. "Shame!"

She was a little figure, thin, underfed, but with the soul of the
fanatic gleaming from her deep eyes. Having known oppression in the land
of her birth, she recognized it in the land of her adoption. Poverty was
not something to accept as the beggar accepted his dole, nor was it
something to struggle against alone. It was a grievous disease that the
body politic might cure if only those who suffered courageously battled
for health. Before her was the vision of a world set free, and for the
moment at least there was to her no sacrifice in accepting hunger and
cold if such privation might bring a step nearer the freedom that she
worshiped. Only a few of the girls understood her call, but none doubted
her sincerity.

"See!" she said, drawing an imaginary line with her foot upon the floor.
"All who will not be scabs, all who will not take bread from the mouths
of others, come to me, cross the line!"

A number of the Jewish girls rose and walked to Sophie's side. Some went
with heads erect, eyes shining, exultant, as though drawing the fine
breath of freedom. Others moved slowly, hesitatingly, sometimes casting
angry looks at Sophie as though they wished to disobey her call and yet
dared not stand out against her. "You go?" asked the girl at Hertha's
right.

The call had been so sudden that Hertha, accustomed to taking her time
before making any decision, had not moved. The voice at her side aroused
her to do her part. Sophie was looking entreatingly in her direction;
and with the realization that her choice one way or the other was of
little personal moment, she rose from her chair and, saying quietly to
her seatmate, "I think we ought to go," crossed the line.

Her stand, little as she appreciated it, had its influence. She had
represented the aristocracy of the workroom. Had she been arrogant she
would have been hated, but her uniform gentleness coupled with her
refined face and graceful carriage, had made her a romantic character
about whom one might weave tales of former greatness or unrequited love.
That she should j