No one can tell of those nights when the young girl was locked in with a hard prostitute—­nights, true, of lessening horror, and so, all the more horrible.  As Rhona came to realize that she was growing accustomed to Millie’s talk—­even to the point of laughing at the jokes—­she was aghast at the dark spaces beneath her and within her.  She was becoming a different sort of being—­she looked back on the hard-toiling girl, who worked so faithfully, who tried to study, who had a quiet home, whose day was an innocent routine of toil and meals and talk and sleep, as on some one who was beautiful and lovely, but now dead.  In her place was a sharp, cynical young woman.  Well for Rhona that her sentence was but five days!

The next afternoon she was scrubbing down the long corridor between the cells when the matron came, jangling her keys.

“Some one here for you,” said the matron.

Rhona leaped up.

“My mother?” she cried out, in a piercing voice.

“See here,” said the matron, “you want to go easy—­and only five minutes, mind you.”

“My mother?” Rhona repeated, her heart near to bursting.

“No—­some one else.  Come along.”

Rhona followed, half choking.  The big door was unlocked before her and swung open; she peered out.  It was Joe and Myra.

Seeing these faces of friends suddenly recalled her to her old world, to the struggle, the heroism, the strike, and, filled with a sense of her imprisonment and its injustice, she rushed blindly out into the open arms of Myra and was clutched close, close.

And then she sobbed, wept for minutes, purifying tears.  And suddenly she had an inspiration, a flash of the meaning of her martyrdom, how it could be used as a fire and a torch to kindle and lead the others.

She lifted up her face.

“You tell the girls,” she cried, “it’s perfectly wonderful to be here.  It’s all right.  Just you tell them it’s all right.  Any of them would be glad to do it!”

And then the matron, who was listening, stepped forward.

“Time’s up!”

There was one kiss, one hug, and the brave girl was led away.  The door slammed her in.

Joe and Myra looked at each other, awed, thrilled.  Tears trickled down Myra’s face.

“Oh,” she cried low, “isn’t it lovely?  Isn’t it wonderful?”

He spoke softly.

“The day of miracles isn’t over.  Women keep on amazing me.  Come!”

Quietly they walked out into the warm, sunshiny day.  Streaks of snow were vanishing in visible steam.  The sky was a soft blue, bulbous with little puffs of cloud.  Myra felt an ineffable peace.  Rhona’s heroism had filled her with a new sense of human power.  She longed to speak with Joe—­she longed, as they stood on the ferry, and glided softly through the wash and sway of the East River, to share her sweet emotions with him.  But he had pulled out a note-book