She groped her way through the inner rooms to the kitchen.  Joe’s mother was reading.

“Mrs. Blaine....”

“Sally!  What’s the matter?”

Joe’s mother arose.

“I’m going ... going to another Local....  I’m leaving here to-night ... for good and always.”

Joe’s mother drew her close, and Sally sobbed openly.

“It’s been my home here—­the first I’ve had in years—­but I’ll never come back.”

“Oh, you must come back.”

“No....” she looked up bravely.  “Mrs. Blaine.”

“Yes, Sally.”

“He doesn’t need me any more; he’s outgrown me; he doesn’t need any one now.”

What could Joe’s mother say?

“Sally!” she cried, and then she murmured:  “It’s you who don’t need any one, Sally.  You’re strong and independent.  You can live your own live.  And you’ve helped make Joe strong.  Wait, and see.”

And she went on to speak of Sally’s work, of her influence in the place, of the joy she brought to others, and finally Sally said: 

“Forgive me for coming to you like a baby.”

“Oh, it’s fine of you to come to me!”

“So,” cried Sally, “good-by.”

She found her hat and coat and slipped away, not daring to say good-by to Joe.  But as she went through the dark winter night she realized how one person’s happiness is often built on another’s tragedy.  And so Sally went, dropping for the time being out of Joe’s life.

* * * * *

There was one event that took place two weeks after Myra’s coming, which she did not soon forget.  It was the great mass-meeting to celebrate the return of Rhona and some others who had also been sent to the workhouse.  Myra and Joe sat together.  After the music, the speeches, Rhona stepped forward, slim, pale, and very little before that gigantic auditorium.  She spoke simply.

“I was picketing on Great Jones Street.  A man came up and struck me.  I had him arrested.  But in court he said I struck him, and the judge sent me to Blackwells Island.  I had to scrub floors.  But it was only for five days.  I think we ought all to be glad to go to the workhouse, because that will help women to be free and help the strikers.  I’m glad I went.  It wasn’t anything much.”

They cheered her, for they saw before them a young heroine, victorious, beloved, ideal.  But when Myra called at Hester Street, a week later, Rhona’s mother had something else to say.

“Rhona?  Well, you had ought to seen her when we first landed!  Ah! she was a beauty, my Rhona—­such cheeks, such hair, such eyes—­laughing all the time.  But now—­ach!” She sighed dreadfully.  “So it goes.  Only, I wished she wasn’t always so afraid—­afraid to go out ... afraid ... so nervous ... so ... different.”