So he took a seat and waited.  He felt feverish and sick, as if he could no longer carry this burden with him.  It seemed impossible to sit still.  And yet he waited over an hour, waited until it was eight at night, all the gas-jets lit.

The young woman came up to him.

“You want to see Miss Heffer?  Come this way.”

He was led up a flight of stairs to a little narrow hall-room.  Sally Heffer was there at a roll-top desk, still in her little brown coat—­quiet, pale, her clear eyes remarkably penetrating.  She turned.

“Yes?”

He shook pitifully,... then he sat down, holding his hat in his hands.

“I’m Joe Blaine....”

“Joe Blaine ... of what?”

“Of the printery ... that burned....”

She looked at him sharply.

“So, you’re the employer.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well,” she said, brusquely, “what do you want?”

“I heard you speak this afternoon.”  His face flickered with a smile.

“And so you ...?”

He could say nothing; and she looked closer.  She saw his gray face, his unsteady eyes, the tragedy of the broken man.  Then she spoke with a lovely gentleness.

“You want to do something?”

“Yes,” he murmured, “I want to give—­all.”

She lowered her voice, and it thrilled him.

“It won’t help to give your money—­you must give yourself.  We don’t want charity.”

He said nothing for a moment; and then strength rose in him.

“I’ll tell you why I came....  I felt I had to....  I felt that you were accusing me.  I know I am guilty.  I have come here to be”—­he smiled strangely—­“sentenced.”

She drew closer.

“You came here for that?”

“Yes.”

She rose and took a step either way.  She gazed on him, and suddenly she broke down and cried, her hands to her face.

“O God,” she sobbed, “when will all this be over?  When will we get rid of this tragedy?  I can’t stand it longer.”

He rose, too, confused.

“Listen,” he whispered.  “I swear to you, I swear, that from this day on my life belongs to those”—­his voice broke—­“dead girls ... to the toilers....”

She impulsively reached out a hand, and he seized it.  Then, when she became more quiet, she murmured: 

“I can see you mean it.  Oh, this is wonderful!  It is a miracle springing out of the fire!”

There was a strange throbbing silence that brought them close together.  And Sally, glancing at him again, whispered: 

“I can see how you have suffered!  Let me help you ... all that I can!”

He spoke in great pain.

“What can I do?  I know so little.”

“Do?  You must learn that for yourself.  You must fit in where you belong.  Do you know anything of the working-class movement?”

“No,” he said.

“Then I will make a list of books and magazines for you.”