And then the women of few opportunities—­the farmers’ wives representing their earnest clubs; the village women, wistful and rather shy; the emergent, onlooking company of few excursions, few indulgences—­what of the Federation for them?  At first, perhaps, they feared it; but cautiously, like unskilled swimmers, they took their experimental strokes.  They found themselves secure; heard themselves applauded.  They acquired boldness, and presently were exhilarated by the consciousness of their own power.  If the great Federation could be cruel, it could be kind, too.  One thing it had stood for from the first, and by that thing it still abided—­the undeviating, disinterested determination to help women develop themselves.  So the faltering voice was listened to, and the report of the eager, kind-eyed woman from the little-back-water-of-the-world was heard with interest.  The Federation knew the value of this woman who said what she meant, and did what she promised.  They sent her home to her town to be an inspiration.  She was a little torch, carrying light.

Day succeeded day.  From early morning till late at night the great convention read its papers, ate its luncheons, held its committee meetings—­talked, aspired, lobbied, schemed, prayed, sang, rejoiced!  Culture was splendidly on its way—­progress was the watchword!  It was wonderful and amusing and superb.

The Feminine mind, much in action, shooting back and forth like a shuttle, was weaving a curious and admirable fabric.  There might be some trouble in discerning the design, but it was there, and if it was not arrestingly original, at least it was interesting.  In places it was even beautiful.  Now and then it gave suggestions of the grotesque.  It was shot through with the silver of talent, the gold of genius.  And with all of its defects it was splendid because the warp thereof was purpose and the woof enthusiasm.

* * * * *

Kate’s day came.  The great theater was packed—­not a vacant seat remained.  For it was mid-afternoon, the sun was shining, and the day was the last one of the convention.

The president presided with easy authority.  It became her—­that seat.  Her keen eyes expressed themselves as being satisfied; her handsome head was carried proudly.  Her voice, of medium pitch, had an accent of gracious command.  She presented to the eye a pleasing, nay, an artistic, picture, and the very gown she wore was a symbol of efficiency—­sign to the initiate.

Kate’s heart was fluttering, her mouth dry.  She greeted her chairwoman somewhat tremulously, and then faced her audience.

For a moment she faltered.  Then a face came before her—­Karl’s face.  She did not so much wish to succeed for him as in despite of him.  He had said she would reach her greatest importance through her relationship to him.  At that moment she thrilled to the belief that, independently of him, she was still important.