But at the moment she felt only bitter, self-reproachful, and full of pity for poor human beings.  It was a time when the divine creatures born of woman seemed mere little waifs astray in a friendless universe, somehow lost on a cruel earth, crying like children in the pitiless night, foredoomed and predestined to broken hearts and death.  It seemed a very sad and strange mystery, and more sad, more strange to be one of these human beings herself.

They reached the house.  Lights were still burning in the office, and when they entered they found the District Committee sitting about the red stove, still working out the morrow’s plans.  Giotto was there, Sally Heffer, and Jacob Izon, and others, tired, pale, and huddled, but still toiling wearily with one another.  As Joe and Myra came in they looked up, and Sally rose.

“Is she—­” she began, and then spoke angrily, “I can see she’s been held.”

Joe smiled sadly.

“Sent to the workhouse for five days.”

Exclamations of indignation arose.  The committee could not believe it.

“I wish,” cried impetuous Sally, “that magistrate were my husband.  I’d throw a flatiron at his head and put some castor-oil in his soup!”

Joe laughed a little.  He looked at his watch, and then at Myra.

“Myra,” he said, gently, “it’s two o’clock—­too late to go home.  You must sleep with mother.”

Myra spoke softly.

“No—­I can get home all right.”

He took her by the arm.

“Myra,” he leaned over, “do just this one thing for me.”

“I will!” she breathed.

He led her in through his room, and knocked softly.

“Mother!”

“Yes,” came a clear, wide-awake voice.  “I’m awake, Joe.”

“Here’s Myra.  May she stay with you?”

“Good!”

Myra went in, but turned.

“Joe,” she said, tremulously, “you’re not going to stay up with that committee?”

“They need me, Myra.”

“But, Joe,” her voice broke—­“this is too much of a good thing—­”

Joe’s mother interrupted her.

“Better leave the boy alone, Myra—­to-night, anyway.”

Joe laughed.

“I’ll try to cut it short!  Sweet dreams, ladies!”

For long they heard his voice mingled with the others, as they lay side by side in the black darkness.  But Myra was glad to be near him, glad to share his invisible presence.  After she had told Joe’s mother about Rhona, the two, unable to sleep, talked quietly for some time.  Drawn together by their love for Joe—­and Joe’s mother was quick in divining—­they felt as if they knew each other intimately, though they had met for the first time that afternoon, when Myra, having reported Rhona’s arrest to Joe, groped her way blindly to the rear kitchen and stood, trying not to sob, before the elder woman.

She had asked: 

“Are you Mrs. Blaine?” and had gone on.  “I’m Myra—­Myra Craig.  Joe and I used to know each other.”