It gave me such a
feeling of peace--of having come home, although I lived in Hampton. I
can't express it."

"I think you're expressing it rather well," said Mrs. Maturin.

"It was so beautiful in the spring," Janet continued, dropping the coat
she held into the drawer. "And it wasn't just the trees and the grass
with the yellow dandelions, it was the houses, too--I've often wondered
why those houses pleased me so much. I wanted to live in every one of
them. Do you know that feeling?" Mrs. Maturin nodded. "They didn't hurt
your eyes when you looked at them, and they seemed to be so much at home
there, even the new ones. The new ones were like the children of the
old."

"I'll tell the architect. He'll be pleased," said Mrs. Maturin.

Janet flushed.

"Am I being silly?" she asked.

"No; my dear," Mrs. Maturin replied. "You've expressed what I feel about
Silliston. What do you intend to do when the strike is over?"

"I hadn't thought." Janet started at the question, but Mrs. Maturin did
not seem to notice the dismay in her tone. "You don't intend to--to
travel around with the I. W. W. people, do you?"

"I--I hadn't thought," Janet faltered. It was the first time Mrs. Maturin
had spoken of her connection with Syndicalism. And she surprised herself
by adding: "I don't see how I could. They can get stenographers anywhere,
and that's all I'm good for." And the question occurred to her--did she
really wish to?

"What I was going to suggest," continued Mrs. Maturin, quietly, "was that
you might try Silliston. There's a chance for a good stenographer there,
and I'm sure you are a good one. So many of the professors send to
Boston."

Janet stood stock still. Then she said: "But you don't know anything
about me, Mrs. Maturin."

Kindliness burned in the lady's eyes as she replied: "I know more now
--since you've told me I know nothing. Of course there's much I don't
know, how you, a stenographer, became involved in this strike and joined
the I. W. W. But you shall tell me or not, as you wish, when we become
better friends."

Janet felt the blood beating in her throat, and an impulse to confess
everything almost mastered her. From the first she had felt drawn toward
Mrs. Maturin, who seemed to hold out to her the promise of a woman's
friendship--for which she had felt a life-long need: a woman friend who
would understand the insatiate yearning in her that gave her no rest in
her search for a glittering essence never fo