He moved toward her, his hands outspread with a protesting gesture.

“You know that all my work is here, Kate.  This is my home, these mines are mine, the town is mine.  It is not only my own money which is invested, but the money of other men—­friends who have trusted me and whose prosperity depends upon me.”

“Oh, but, Karl, aren’t there ways of arranging such things?  You say I am dear to you—­transfer your interests and come with me—­Karl!” Her voice was a pleader’s, yet it kept its pride.

“Kate!  How can I?  Do you want me to be a supplement to you—­a hanger-on?  Don’t you see that you would make me ridiculous?”

“Would I?” said Kate.  “Does it seem that way to you?  Then you haven’t learned to respect me, after all.”

“I worship you,” he cried.

Kate smiled sadly.

“I know,” she said, “but worship passes—­”

“No—­” he flung out, starting toward her.

But she held him back with a gesture.

“You have stolen my word,” she said with an accent of finality. “‘No’” is the word you force me to speak.  I am going on to Washington in the morning, Karl.

They heard the children running down the hall and pounding on the door with their soft fists.  When Kate opened to them, they clambered up her skirts.  She lifted them in her arms, and Karl saw their sunny heads nestling against her dark one.  As she left the room, moving unseeingly, she heard the hard-wrung groan that came from his lips.

A moment later, as she mounted the stairs, she saw him striding up the trail which they, together, had ascended once when the sun of their hope was still high.

She did not meet him again that day.  She and Honora ate their meals in silence, Honora dark with disapproval, Kate clinging to her spar of spiritual integrity.

If that “no” thundered in Karl’s ears the night through while he kept the company of his ancient comforters the mountains, no less did it beat shatteringly in the ears of the woman who had spoken it.

“No,” to the deep and mystic human joys; “no” to the most holy privilege of women; “no” to light laughter and a dancing heart; “no” to the lowly, satisfying labor of a home.  For her the steep path, alone; for her the precipice.  From it she might behold the sunrise and all the glory of the world, but no exalted sense of duty or of victory could blind her to its solitude and to its danger.

Yet now, if ever, women must be true to the cause of liberty.  They had been, through all the ages, willing martyrs to the general good.  Now it was laid upon them to assume the responsibilities of a new crusade, to undertake a fresh martyrdom, and this time it was for themselves.  Leagued against them was half—­quite half—­of their sex.  Vanity and prettiness, dalliance and dependence were their characteristics.  With a shrug of half-bared shoulders they dismissed all those who, painfully, nobly, gravely, were fighting to restore woman’s connection with reality—­to put her back, somehow, into the procession; to make, by new methods, the “coming lady” as essential to the commonwealth as was the old-time chatelaine before commercialism filched her vocations and left her the most cultivated and useless of parasites.