From A to Z

by Susan Glaspell

Thus had another ideal tumbled to the rubbish heap! She seemed to bebreathing the dust which the newly fallen had stirred up among itslonger dead fellows. Certainly she was breathing the dust fromsomewhere.During her senior year at the university, when people would ask:"And what are you going to do when you leave school, Miss Willard?"she would respond with anything that came to hand, secretly huggingto her mind that idea of getting a position in a publishing house. Herconception of her publishing house was finished about the same timeas her class-day gown. She was to have a roll-top desk--probably ofmahogany--and a big chair which whirled round like that in the officeof the under-graduate dean. She was to have a little office all byherself, opening on a bigger office--the little one marked "Private."There were to be beautiful rugs--the general effect not unlike thelibrary at the University Club--books and pictures and cultivatedgentlemen who spoke often of Greek tragedies and the Renaissance.She was a little uncertain as to her duties, but had a general ideaabout getting down between nine and ten, reading the morning paper,cutting the latest magazine, and then "writing something."Commencement was now four months past, and one of her professors hadindeed secured for her a position in a Chicago "publishing house."This was her first morning and she was standing at the windowlooking down into Dearborn Street while the man who was to have herin charge was fixing a place for her to sit.That the publishing house should be on Dearborn Street had been herfirst blow, for she had long located her publishing house on thatbeautiful stretch of Michigan Avenue which overlooked the lake. Butthe real insult was that this publishing house, instead of having abuilding, or at least a floor, all to itself, simply had a placepenned off in a bleak, dirty building such as one who had done workin sociological research instinctively associated with a boxfactory. And the thing which fairly trailed her visions in the dustwas that the partition penning them off did not extend to theceiling, and the adjoining room being occupied by a patent medicinecompany, she was face to face with glaring endorsements of Dr.Bunting's Famous Kidney and Bladder Cure. Taken all in all thereseemed little chance for Greek tragedies or the Renaissance.The man who was "running things"--she buried her phraseology withher dreams--wore a skull cap, and his moustache dragged down belowhis chin. Just at present he was engaged in noisily pulling a mostunliterary pine table from a dark corner to a place near the window.That accomplished, an ostentatious hunt ensued, resulting in thetriumphant flourish of a feather duster. Several knocks at thetable, and the dust of many months--perhaps likewise of manydreams--ascended to a resting place on the endorsement of Dr.Bunting's Kidney and Bladder Cure. He next produced a short,straight-backed chair which she recognised as brother to the onewhich used to stand behind their kitchen stove. He gave it a shake,thus delicately indicating that she was receiving special favours inthis matter of an able-bodied chair, and then announced with brisksatisfaction: "So! Now we are ready to begin." She murmured a "Thankyou," seated herself and her buried hopes in this chair which didnot whirl round, and leaned her arms upon a table which did not evendream in mahogany.In the other publishing house, one pushed buttons anduniformed menials appeared--noiselessly, quickly and deferentially.At this moment a boy with sandy hair brushed straight back in amanner either statesmanlike or clownlike--things were too involvedto know which--shuffled in with an armful of yellow paper which heflopped down on the pine table. After a minute he returned with awarbled "Take Me Back to New York Town" and a paste-pot. And uponhis third appearance he was practising gymnastics with a huge pairof shears, which he finally presented, grinningly.There was a long pause, broken only by the sonorous voice of Dr.Bunting upbraiding someone for not having billed out that stuff toApple Grove, and then the sandy-haired boy appeared bearing a largedictionary, followed by the man in the skull cap behind a dictionaryof equal unwieldiness. These were set down on either side of theyellow paper, and he who was filling the position of cultivatedgentleman pulled up a chair, briskly."Has Professor Lee explained to you the nature of our work?" hewanted to know."No," she replied, half grimly, a little humourously, and not farfrom tearfully, "he didn't--explain.""Then it is my pleasure to inform you," he began, blinking at herimportantly, "that we are engaged here in the making of adictionary.""A dic--?" but she swallowed the gasp in the laugh coming upto meet it, and of their union was born a saving cough."Quite an overpowering thought, is it not?" he agreed pleasantly."Now you see you have before you the two dictionaries you will usemost, and over in that case you will find other references. The mainthing"--his voice sank to an impressive whisper--"is not toinfringe the copyright. The publisher was in yesterday and made alittle talk to the force, and he said that any one who handed in apiece of copy infringing the copyright simply employed that means ofwriting his own resignation. Neat way of putting it, was it not?""Yes, wasn't it--neat?" she agreed, wildly.She was conscious of a man's having stepped in behind her and takena seat at the table next hers. She heard him opening his dictionariesand getting out his paper. Then the man in the skull cap had risenand was saying genially: "Well, here is a piece of old Webster, yourfirst 'take'--no copyright on this, you see, but you must moderniseand expand. Don't miss any of the good words in either of thesedictionaries. Here you have dictionaries, copy-paper, paste, andProfessor Lee assures me you have brains--all the necessaryingredients for successful lexicography. We are to have some rulesprinted to-morrow, and in the meantime I trust I've made myself clear.The main thing"--he bent down and spoke it solemnly--"is not toinfringe the copyright." With a cheerful nod he was gone, and she heardhim saying to the man at the next table: "Mr. Clifford, I shall haveto ask you to be more careful about getting in promptly at eight."She removed the cover from her paste-pot and dabbled a little on apiece of paper. Then she tried the unwieldy shears on another pieceof paper. She then opened one of her dictionaries and readstudiously for fifteen minutes. That accomplished, she opened theother dictionary and pursued it for twelve minutes. Then she tookthe column of "old Webster," which had been handed her pasted on apiece of yellow paper, and set about attempting to commit it tomemory. She looked up to be met with the statement that Mrs. MarjoryVan Luce De Vane, after spending years under the so-called bestsurgeons of the country, had been cured in six weeks by Dr.Bunting's Famous Kidney and Bladder Cure. She pushed thedictionaries petulantly from her, and leaning her very red cheekupon her hand, her hazel eyes blurred with tears of perplexity andresentment, her mouth drawn in pathetic little lines of uncertainty,looked over at the sprawling warehouse on the opposite side ofDearborn Street. She was just considering the direct manner ofwriting one's resignation--not knowing how to infringe thecopyright--when a voice said: "I beg pardon, but I wonder if I canhelp you any?"She had never heard a voice like that before. Or, had sheheard it?--and where? She looked at him, a long, startled gaze.Something made her think of the voice the prince used to have inlong-ago dreams. She looked into a face that was dark and thinand--different. Two very dark eyes were looking at her kindly, and amouth which was a baffling combination of things to be loved andthings to be deplored was twitching a little, as though it wouldlike to join the eyes in a smile, if it dared.Because he saw both how funny and how hard it was, she liked him. Itwould have been quite different had he seen either one without theother."You can tell me how not to infringe the copyright," shelaughed. "I'm not sure that I know what a copyright is."He laughed--a laugh which belonged with his voice. "Mr. Littletreeisn't as lucid as he thinks he is. I've been here a week or so, andpicked up a few things you might like to know."He pulled his chair closer to her table then and gave her a lesson inthe making of copy. Edna Willard was never one-half so attractive aswhen absorbed in a thing which someone was showing her how to do. Herhazel eyes would widen and glisten with the joy of comprehending; hercheeks would flush a deeper pink with the coming of new light, hermouth would part in a child-like way it had forgotten to outgrow,her head would nod gleefully in token that she understood, and shehad a way of pulling at her wavy hair and making it more wavy thanit had been before. The man at the next table was a long time inexplaining the making of a dictionary. He spoke in low tones, oftenlooking at the figure of the man in the skull cap, who was sittingwith his back to them, looking over copy. Once she cried, excitedly:"Oh--I see!" and he warned, "S--h!" explaining, "Let him thinkyou got it all from him. It will give you a better stand-in." Shenodded, appreciatively, and felt very well acquainted with this kindman whose voice made her think of something--called to something--shedid not just know what.After that she became so absorbed in lexicography that when the menbegan putting away their things it was hard to realise that themorning had gone. It was a new and difficult game, the evasion ofthe copyright furnishing the stimulus of a hazard.The man at the next table had been watching her with an amusedadmiration. Her child-like absorption, the way every emotion fromperplexity to satisfaction expressed itself in the poise of her headand the pucker of her face, took him back over years emotionallybarren to the time when he too had those easily stirred enthusiasmsof youth. For the man at the next table was far from young now. Hismouth had never quite parted with boyishness, but there was morewhite than black in his hair, and the lines about his mouth toldthat time, as well as forces more aging than time, had laid heavyhand upon him. But when he looked at the girl and told her with asmile that it was time to stop work, it was a smile and a voice todefy the most tell-tale face in all the world.During her luncheon, as she watched the strange people coming andgoing, she did much wondering. She wondered why it was that so manyof the men at the dictionary place were very old men; she wonderedif it would be a good dictionary--one that would be used in theschools; she wondered if Dr. Bunting had made a great deal of money,and most of all she wondered about the man at the next table whosevoice was like--like a dream which she did not know that she haddreamed.When she had returned to the straggling old building, had stumbleddown the narrow, dark hall and opened the door of the big bleakroom, she saw that the man at the next table was the only one whohad returned from luncheon. Something in his profile made her standthere very still. He had not heard her come in, and he was lookingstraight ahead, eyes half closed, mouth set--no unsurrenderedboyishness there now. Wholly unconsciously she took an impulsivestep forward. But she stopped, for she saw, and felt without reallyunderstanding, that it was not just the moment's pain, but therevealed pain of years. Just then he began to cough, and it seemedthe cough, too, was more than of the moment. And then he turned andsaw her, and smiled, and the smile changed all.As the afternoon wore on the man stopped working and turning alittle in his chair sat there covertly watching the girl. She wasjust typically girl. It was written that she had spent her days inthe happy ways of healthful girlhood. He supposed that a great manyyoung fellows had fallen in love with her--nice, clean youngfellows, the kind she would naturally meet. And then his eyes closedfor a minute and he put up his hand and brushed back his hair; therewas weariness, weariness weary of itself, in the gesture. He lookedabout the room and scanned the faces of the men, most of them olderthan he, many of them men whose histories were well known to him.They were the usual hangers on about newspaper offices; men who, forone reason or other--age, dissipation, antiquated methods--had beenpitched over, men for whom such work as this came as a godsend. Theywere the men of yesterday--men whom the world had rushed past. Shewas the only one there, this girl who would probably sit here besidehim for many months, with whom the future had anything to do.YouthJoystrange things to bring to a placelike this. And as if their alienism disturbed him, he movedrestlessly, almost resentfully, bit his lips nervously, moistenedthem, and began putting away his things.As the girl was starting home along Dearborn Street a few minuteslater, she chanced to look in a window. She saw that it was asaloon, but before she could turn away she saw a man with a whiteface--white with the peculiar whiteness of a dark face, standingbefore the bar drinking from a small glass. She stood still,arrested by a look such as she had never seen before: a pantinghuman soul sobbingly fluttering down into something from which ithad spent all its force in trying to rise. When she recalled herselfand passed on, a mist which she could neither account for nor banishwas dimming the clear hazel of her eyes.The next day was a hard one at the dictionary place. She toldherself it was because the novelty of it was wearing away, becauseher fingers ached, because it tired her back to sit in that horridchair. She did not admit of any connection between her flagginginterest and the fact that the place at the next table was vacant.The following day he was still absent. She assumed that it wasnervousness occasioned by her queer surroundings made her lookaround whenever she heard a step behind her. Where was he? Where hadthat look carried him? If he were in trouble, was there no one tohelp him?The third day she did an unpremeditated thing. The man in the skullcap had been showing her something about the copy. As he wasleaving, she asked: "Is the man who sits at the next table comingback?""Oh yes," he replied grimly, "he'll be back.""Because," she went on, "if he wasn't, I thought I would take hisshears. These hurt my fingers."He made the exchange for her--and after that things went better.He did return late the next morning. After he had taken his place helooked over at her and smiled. He looked sick and shaken--as ifsomething that knew no mercy had taken hold of him and wrung bodyand soul."You have been ill?" she asked, with timid solicitude."Oh no," he replied, rather shortly.He was quiet all that day, but the next day they talked about thework, laughed together over funny definitions they found. She feltthat he could tell many interesting things about himself, if hecared to.As the days went on he did tell some of those things--out of the wayplaces where he had worked, queer people whom he had known. Itseemed that words came to him as gifts, came freely, happily,pleased, perhaps, to be borne by so sympathetic a voice. And therewas another thing about him. He seemed always to know just what shewas trying to say; he never missed the unexpressed. That made iteasy to say things to him; there seemed a certain at-homenessbetween his thought and hers. She accounted for her interest in himby telling herself she had never known any one like that before. NowHarold, the boy whom she knew best out at the university, why onehad to say things to Harold to make him understand! AndHarold never left one wondering--wondering what he had meant by thatsmile, what he had been going to say when he started to saysomething and stopped, wondering what it was about his face that onecould not understand. Harold never could claim as his the hour afterhe had left her, and was one ever close to anyone with whom one didnot spend some of the hours of absence? She began to see that hoursspent together when apart were the most intimate hours of all.And as Harold did not make one wonder, so he did not make one worry.Never in all her life had there been a lump in her throat when shethought of Harold. There was often a lump in her throat when the manat the next table was coughing.One day, she had been there about two months, she said something tohim about it. It was hard; it seemed forcing one's way into a roomthat had never been opened to one--there were several doors he keptclosed."Mr. Clifford," she turned to him impetuously as they were puttingaway their things that night, "will you mind if I say something toyou?"He was covering his paste-pot. He looked up at her strangely. Theclosed door seemed to open a little way. "I can't conceive of'minding' anything you might say to me, Miss Noah,"--he had calledher Miss Noah ever since she, by mistake, had one day called him Mr.Webster."You see," she hurried on, very timid, now that the door had openeda little, "you have been so good to me. Because you have been sogood to me it seems that I have some right to--to--"His head was resting upon his hand, and he leaned a little closer asthough listening for something he wanted to hear."I had a cousin who had a cough like yours,"--brave now that shecould not go back--"and he went down to New Mexico and stayed for ayear, and when he came back--when he came back he was as well as anyof us. It seems so foolish not to"--her voice broke, now that it hadso valiantly carried it--"not to--"He looked at her, and that was all. But she was never wholly thesame again after that look. It enveloped her being in a somethingwhich left her richer--different. It was a look to light the darkplace between two human souls. It seemed for the moment that wordswould follow it, but as if feeling their helplessness--perhapsneedlessness--they sank back unuttered, and at the last he got up,abruptly, and walked away.One night, while waiting for the elevator, she heard two of the mentalking about him. When she went out on the street it was with headhigh, cheeks hot. For nothing is so hard to hear as that which onehas half known, and evaded. One never denies so hotly as in denyingto one's self what one fears is true, and one never resents sobitterly as in resenting that which one cannot say one has the rightto resent.That night she lay in her bed with wide open eyes, going over andover the things they had said. "Cure?"--one of them hadscoffed, after telling how brilliant he had been before he "went topieces"--"why all the cures on earth couldn't help him! He can gojust so far, and then he can no more stop himself--oh, about as muchas an ant could stop a prairie fire!"She finally turned over on her pillow and sobbed; and she wonderedwhy--wondered, yet knew.But it resulted in the flowering of her tenderness for him. Interestmounted to defiance. It ended in blind, passionate desire to "makeit up" to him. And again he was so different from Harold; Harold didnot impress himself upon one by upsetting all one's preconceivedideas.She felt now that she understood better--understood the closeddoors. He was--she could think of no better word than sensitive.And that is why, several mornings later, she very courageously--forit did take courage--threw this little note over on his desk--theyhad formed a habit of writing notes to each other, sometimes aboutthe words, sometimes about other things."IN-VI-TA-TION, n. That which Miss Noah extends to Mr.Webster for Friday evening, December second, at the house where shelives--hasn't she already told him where that is? It is the wish ofMiss Noah to present Mr. Webster to various other Miss Noahs, all ofwhom are desirous of making his acquaintance."She was absurdly nervous at luncheon that day, and kept tellingherself with severity not to act like a high-school girl. He waslate in returning that noon, and though there seemed a new somethingin his voice when he asked if he hadn't better sharpen her pencils,he said nothing about her new definition of invitation. It wasalmost five o'clock when he threw this over on her desk:"AP-PRE-CI-A-TION, n. That sentiment inspired in Mr. Websterby the kind invitation of Miss Noah for Friday evening."RE-GRET, n. That which Mr. Webster experiences because, forreasons into which he cannot go in detail, it is impossible for himto accept Miss Noah's invitation."RE-SENT-MENT, n. That which is inspired in Mr. Webster bythe insinuation that there are other Miss Noahs in the world."Then below he had written: "Three hours later. Miss Noah, the worldis queer. Some day you may find out--though I hope you neverwill--that it is frequently the things we most want to do that wemust leave undone. Miss Noah, won't you go on bringing me as much ofyourself as you can to Dearborn Street, and try not to think muchabout my not being able to know the Miss Noah of Hyde Park? Andlittle Miss Noah--I thank you. There aren't words enough in this oldbook of ours to tell you how much--or why."That night he hurried away with never a joke about how many wordsshe had written that day. She did not look up as he stood thereputting on his coat.It was spring now, and the dictionary staff had begun on W.They had written of Joy, of Hope and Life and Love, and many otherthings. Life seemed pressing just behind some of those definitions,pressing the harder, perhaps, because it could not break through thesurface.For it did not break through; it flooded just beneath.How did she know that he cared for her? She could not possibly havetold. Perhaps the nearest to actual proof she could bring was thathe always saw that her overshoes were put in a warm place. And whenone came down to facts, the putting of a girl's rubbers near theradiator did not necessarily mean love.Perhaps then it was because there was no proof of it that she wasmost sure. For some of the most sure things in the world are thingswhich cannot be proved.It was only that they worked together and were friends; that theylaughed together over funny definitions they found, that he was kindto her, and that they seemed remarkably close together.That is as far as facts can take it.And just there--it begins.For the force which rushes beneath the facts of life, caring nothingfor conditions, not asking what one desires or what one thinks best,caring as little about a past as about a future--save its ownfuture--the force which can laugh at man's institutions and batterover in one sweep what he likes to call his wisdom, was sweepingthem on. And because it could get no other recognition it forced itsway into the moments when he asked her for an eraser, when shewanted to know how to spell a word. He could not so much as ask herif she needed more copy-paper without seeming to be lavishing uponher all the love of all the ages.And so the winter had worn on, and there was really nothing whateverto tell about it.She was quiet this morning, and kept her head bent low over herwork. For she had estimated the number of pages there were between Wand Z. Soon they would be at Z;--and then? Then? Shyly she turnedand looked at him; he too was bent over his work. When she came inshe had said something about its being spring, and that there mustbe wild flowers in the woods. Since then he had not looked up.Suddenly it came to her--tenderly, hotly, fearfully yet bravely,that it was she who must meet Z. She looked at him again, covertly.And she felt that she understood. It was the lines in his face madeit clearest. Years, and things blacker, less easily surmounted thanyears--oh yes, that too she faced fearlessly--were piled in between.She knew now that it was she--not he--who could push them aside.It was all very unmaidenly, of course; but maidenly is a word loveand life and desire may crowd from the page.Perhaps she would not have thrown it after all--the little note shehad written--had it not been that when she went over for morecopy-paper she stood for a minute looking out the window. Even onDearborn Street the seductiveness of spring was in the air. Spring,and all that spring meant, filled her.Because, way beyond the voice of Dr. Bunting she heard the songs offar-away birds, and because beneath the rumble of a printing pressshe could get the babble of a brook, because Z was near and life wasstrong, the woman vanquished the girl, and she threw this over tohis desk:"CHAFING-DISH, n. That out of which Miss Noah asks Mr. Webster toeat his Sunday night lunch tomorrow. All the other Miss Noahs aregoing to be away, and if Mr. Webster does not come, Miss Noah willbe all alone. Miss Noah does not like to be lonely."She ate no lunch that day; she only drank a cup of coffee and walkedaround.He did not come back that afternoon. It passed from one to two, fromtwo to three, and then very slowly from three to four, and still hehad not come.He too was walking about. He had walked down to the lake and wasstanding there looking out across it.Why not?--he was saying to himself--fiercely, doggedly. Over andover again--Well, why not?A hundred nights, alone in his room, he had gone over it. Had notlife used him hard enough to give him a little now?--longing hadpleaded. And now there was a new voice--more prevailing voice--thevoice of her happiness. His face softened to an almost maternaltenderness as he listened to that voice.Too worn to fight any longer, he gave himself up to it, and satthere dreaming. They were dreams of joy rushing in after lonelyyears, dreams of stepping into the sunlight after long days in fogand cold, dreams of a woman before a fireplace--her arms about him,her cheer and her tenderness, her comradeship and her passion--allhis to take! Ah, dreams which even thoughts must not touch--sowonderful and sacred they were.A long time he sat there, dreaming dreams and seeing visions. Theforce that rules the race was telling him that the one crime was thedenial of happiness--his happiness, her happiness; and when at lasthis fight seemed but a puerile fight against forces worlds mightierthan he, he rose, and as one who sees a great light, started backtoward Dearborn Street.On the way he began to cough. The coughing was violent, and hestepped into a doorway to gain breath. And after he had gone inthere he realised that it was the building of Chicago's greatestnewspaper.He had been city editor of that paper once. Facts, the things heknew about himself, talked to him then. There was no answer.It left him weak and dizzy and crazy for a drink. He walked onslowly, unsteadily, his white face set. For he had vowed that if ittook the last nerve in his body there should be no more of thatuntil after they had finished with Z. He knew himself too well tovow more. He was not even sure of that.He did not turn in where he wanted to go, but resistance took thelast bit of force that was in him. He was trembling like a sick manwhen he stepped into the elevator.She was just leaving. She was in the little cloak room putting onher things. She was all alone in there.He stepped in. He pushed the door shut, and stood there leaningagainst it, looking at her, saying nothing."Oh--you are ill?" she gasped, and laid a frightened hand upon him.The touch crazed him. All resistance gone, he swept her into hisarms; he held her fiercely, and between sobs kissed her again andagain. He could not let her go. He frightened her. He hurt her. Andhe did not care--he did not know.Then he held her off and looked at her. And as he looked into hereyes, passion melted to tenderness. It was she now--not he;love--not hunger. Holding her face in his two hands, looking at heras if getting something to take away, his white lips murmured wordstoo inarticulate for her to hear. And then again he put his armsaround her--all differently. Reverently, sobbingly, he kissed herhair. And then he was gone.He did not come out that Sunday afternoon, but Harold dropped ininstead, and talked of some athletic affairs over at the university.She wondered why she did not go crazy in listening to him, and yetshe could answer intelligently. It was queer--what one coulddo.They had come at last to Z. There would be no more work upon thedictionary after that day. And it was raining--raining as in Chicagoalone it knows how to rain.They wrote no notes to each other now. It had been different sincethat day. They made small effort to cover their raw souls with themantle of commonplace words.Both of them had tried to stay away that last day. But both were intheir usual places.The day wore on eventlessly. Those men with whom she had worked, themen of yesterday, who had been kind to her, came up at various timesfor little farewell chats. The man in the skull cap told her thatshe had done excellent work. She was surprised at the ease withwhich she could make decent reply, thinking again that it wasqueer--what one could do.He was moving. She saw him lay some sheets of yellow paper on thedesk in front. He had finished with his "take." There would not beanother to give him. He would go now.He came back to his desk. She could hear him putting away histhings. And then for a long time there was no sound. She knew thathe was just sitting there in his chair.Then she heard him get up. She heard him push his chair up to thetable, and then for a minute he stood there. She wanted to turntoward him; she wanted to say something--do something. But she hadno power.She saw him lay an envelope upon her desk. She heard him walkingaway. She knew, numbly, that his footsteps were not steady. She knewthat he had stopped; she was sure that he was looking back. Butstill she had no power.And then she heard him go.Even then she went on with her work; she finished her "take" andlaid down her pencil. It was finished now--and he had gone.Finished?--Gone? She was tearing open the envelope of theletter.This was what she read:"Little dictionary sprite, sunshine vender, and girl to be loved, ifI were a free man I would say to you--Come, little one, and let uslearn of love. Let us learn of it, not as one learns fromdictionaries, but let us learn from the morning glow and the eveningshades. But Miss Noah, maker of dictionaries and creeper intohearts, the bound must not call to the free. They might fittinglyhave used my name as one of the synonyms under that word Failure,but I trust not under Coward."And now, you funny little Miss Noah from the University of Chicago,don't I know that your heart is blazing forth the assurance that youdon't care for any of those things--the world, people, commonsense--that you want just love? They made a grand failure of you outat your university; they taught you philosophy and they taught youGreek, and they've left you just as much the woman as women werefive thousand years ago. Oh, I know all about you--you little girlwhose hair tried so hard to be red. Your soul touched mine as we satthere writing words--words--words, the very words in which men tryto tell things, and can't--and I know all about what you would do.But you shall not do it. Dear little copy maker, would a manstanding out on the end of a slippery plank have any right to cry tosomeone on the shore--'Come out here on this plank with me?' If heloved the someone on the shore, would he not say instead--'Don't geton this plank?' Me get off the plank--come with you to theshore--you are saying? But you see, dear, you only know slipperyplanks as viewed from the shore--God grant you may never know themany other way!"It was you, was it not, who wrote our definition of happiness? Yes,I remember the day you did it. You were so interested; your cheeksgrew so very red, and you pulled and pulled at your wavy hair. Yousaid it was such an important definition. And so it is, Miss Noah,quite the most important of all. And on the page of life, Miss Noah,may happiness be written large and unblurred for you. It is becauseI cannot help you write it that I turn away. I want at least toleave the page unspoiled."I carry a picture of you. I shall carry it always. You are sittingbefore a fireplace, and I think of that fireplace as symbolising thewarmth and care and tenderness and the safety that will surroundyou. And sometimes as you sit there let a thought of me come forjust a minute, Miss Noah--not long enough nor deep enough to bringyou any pain. But only think--I brought him happiness after hebelieved all happiness had gone. He was so grateful for that lightwhich came after he thought the darkness had settled down. It willlight his way to the end."We've come to Z, and it's good-bye. There is one thing I can giveyou without hurting you,--the hope, the prayer, that life may bevery, very good to you."The sheets of paper fell from her hands. She sat staring outinto Dearborn Street. She began to see. After all, he had notunderstood her. Perhaps men never understood women; certainlyhe had not understood her. What he did not know was that shewas willing to pay for her happiness--pay--pay any pricethat might be exacted. And anyway--she had no choice. Strange thathe could not see that! Strange that he could not see the irony andcruelty of bidding her good-bye and then telling her to be happy!It simplified itself to such an extent that she grew verycalm. It would be easy to find him, easy to make him see--for it wasso very simple--and then....She turned in her copy. She said good-bye quietly, naturally, rodedown in the lumbering old elevator and started out into the nowdrenching rain toward the elevated trains which would take her tothe West Side; it was so fortunate that she had heard him tellingone day where he lived.When she reached the station she saw that more people were comingdown the stairs than were going up. They were saying things aboutthe trains, but she did not heed them. But at the top of the stairsa man in uniform said: "Blockade, Miss. You'll have to take thesurface cars."She was sorry, for it would delay her, and there was not a minute tolose. She was dismayed, upon reaching the surface cars, to find shecould not get near them; the rain, the blockade on the "L" hadcaused a great crowd to congregate there. She waited a long time,getting more and more wet, but it was impossible to get near thecars. She thought of a cab, but could see none, they too having allbeen pressed into service.She determined, desperately, to start and walk. Soon she wouldsurely get either a cab or a car. And so she started, staunchly,though she was wet through now, and trembling with cold andnervousness.As she hurried through the driving rain she faced things fearlessly.Oh yes, she understood--everything. But if he were not well--shouldhe not have her with him? If he had that thing to fight, did he notneed her help? What did men think women were like? Did he think shewas one to sit down and reason out what would be advantageous?Better a little while with him on a slippery plank than forever safeand desolate upon the shore!She never questioned her going; were not life and love too great tobe lost through that which could be so easily put right?The buildings were reeling, the streets moving up and down--thatawful rain, she thought, was making her dizzy. Labouriously shewalked on--more slowly, less steadily, a pain in her side, thatawful reeling in her head.Carriages returning to the city were passing her, but she had notstrength to call to them, and it seemed if she walked to the curbingshe would fall. She was not thinking so clearly now. The thing whichtook all of her force was the lifting of her feet and the puttingthem down in the right place. Her throat seemed to be closingup--and her side--and her head....Someone had her by the arm. Then someone was speaking her name;speaking it in surprise--consternation--alarm.It was Harold.It was all vague then. She knew that she was in a carriage, and thatHarold was talking to her kindly. "You're taking me there?" shemurmured."Yes--yes, Edna, everything's all right," he replied soothingly."Everything's all right," she repeated, in a whisper, and leaned herhead back against the cushions.They stopped after a while, and Harold was standing at the open doorof the cab with something steaming hot which he told her to drink."You need it," he said decisively, and thinking it would help her totell it, she drank it down.The world was a little more defined after that, and she saw thingswhich puzzled her. "Why, it looks like the city," she whispered, herthroat too sore now to speak aloud."Why sure," he replied banteringly; "don't you know we have to gothrough the city to get out to the South Side?""Oh, but you see," she cried, holding her throat, "but you see, it'sthe other way!""Not to-night," he insisted; "the place for you to-night is home.I'm taking you where you belong."She reached over wildly, trying to open the door, but he held herback; she began to cry, and he talked to her, gently but unbendingly."But you don't understand!" she whispered, passionately. "I'vegot to go!""Not to-night," he said again, and something in the way he said itmade her finally huddle back in the corner of the carriage.Block after block, mile after mile, they rode on in silence. Shefelt overpowered. And with submission she knew that it was Z. Forthe whole city was piled in between. Great buildings were inbetween, and thousands of men running to and fro on the streets;man, and all man had builded up, were in between. And thenHarold--Harold who had always seemed to count for so little, hadcome and taken her away.Dully, wretchedly--knowing that her heart would ache far worseto-morrow than it did to-night--she wondered about things. Didthings like rain and street-cars and wet feet and a sore throatdetermine life? Was it that way with other people, too? Did otherpeople have barriers--whole cities full of them--piled in between?And then did the Harolds come and take them where they said theybelonged? Were there not some people strong enough to gowhere they wanted to go?

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