Then as she sat there she beheld the miracle of color.  Behind her, between the black tree trunks, the setting sun was a liquid red splendor, daubing some low clouds with rosiness, and all about her, in the turn between day and night, the world, which before was a blend in the strong light, now divided into a myriad sharp tints.  The air held a tinge of purple, the distance a smoky violet, the brown of the grasses was a strong brown, the black of the trunks intensely black.  Out among distant trees she saw a woman and child walking, and the child’s scarlet cloak seemed a living thing as it swayed and moved.  How sharp and distinct were the facts of earth! how miraculously tinted! what tones of blue and red, of purple and black!  It was the sunset singing its hymn of color, and it made her feel keenly the mystery and beauty of life—­the great moments of solution and peace—­the strange human life that inhabits for a brief space this temple of a million glories.  But something was missing, there was a great lack, a wide emptiness.  She resolved then to see Joe.

It was not, however, until the next afternoon that she took the elevated train to Ninth Street and then the crosstown car over the city.  She alighted in the shabby street; she walked up to the entrance; she saw over the French windows a big canvas sign, “Strike Headquarters.”  Within, she thought she saw a mass of people.  This made her hesitate.  She had expected to find him alone.  And somehow, too, the place was even shabbier, even meaner than she had expected.  And so she stood a moment—­a slender, little woman, her hands in a muff, a fur scarf bound about her throat, her gray eyes liquid and luminous, a rosy tint in her cheeks, her lips parted and releasing a thin steam in the bitter winter air.  Overhead the sky was darkening with cloud-masses, a shriveling wind dragged the dirty street, and the world was desolate and gray.  The blood was pulsing in Myra’s temples, her heart leaped, her breath panted.  And as she hesitated a girl passed her, a girl about whose breast was bound a placard whereon were the words: 

JOIN THE STRIKE
OF THE THIRTY THOUSAND

What strike?  What did it mean?  Was Joe in a strike?  She thought he had been editing a paper.  She had better not intrude.  She turned, as if to fly, and yet hesitated.  Her feet refused to go; her heart was rebellious.  Only a wall divided him from her.  Why should she not see him?  Why not a moment’s conversation?  Then she would go and leave him to his work.

Another girl passed her and paused—­a girl also placarded, a girl with a strange beauty, somewhat tall, with form well rounded, with pale face full of the fascination of burning eagerness.  This girl’s eyes were a clear blue, her lips set tight, and her light-brown hair blew beautifully about her cheeks.  She was, however, but thinly clothed, and her frail little coat was short and threadbare.

She spoke to Myra—­a rich, sympathetic voice.