“In aeroplane construction,” the speaker continued, “where an undetected flaw in her work might mean an aviator’s life, woman is doing the carpentry work, building the frame work, making the propellers.  They are welding metals, drilling, boring, grinding, milling, even working on the engines and magnetos—­”

A quiver ran up and down Mary’s back and her eyes felt wet.  “Just what I’ve always said,” she thought.  “Ah, the poor women—­”

“They are making telescopes, periscopes, binoculars, cameras—­cutting and grinding the lenses—­work so fine that the deviation of a hair’s breadth would cause rejection—­some of the lenses as small as a split pea.  They make the metal parts that hold those lenses, assemble them, adjust them, test them.  These are the eyes of the army and navy—­surely no small part for the woman to supply.”

Mary’s thoughts turned to some of the homes she had seen—­the surroundings—­the expression of the housewife.  “All her life and no help for it,” she thought.  And again, “Ah, the poor women....”

“To tell you the things she is making would be to give you a list of everything used in modern warfare.  They are making ships, tanks, cannon, rifles, cartridges.  They are operating the most wonderful trip hammers that were ever conceived by the mind of man, and under the same roof they are doing hand work so delicate that the least extra pressure of a file would spoil a week’s labour.  More!  There isn’t a process in which she has been employed where woman has failed to show that she is man’s equal in speed and skill.  In many operations she has shown that she is man’s superior—­doing this by the simple method of turning out more work in a day than the man whose place she took—­”

Mary invited the speaker to go home with her, and if you had gone past the house on the hill that night, you would have seen lights burning downstairs until after one o ’clock.

How did they train the women?

How did they find time to do their washing and ironing?

What about the children?  And the babies?  And the home?

As the visitor explained, stopping now and then to tell her young hostess where to write for government reports giving facts and figures on the subject which they were discussing, Mary’s eyes grew dreamier and dreamier as one fancy after another passed through her mind.  And when the clock struck one and she couldn’t for shame keep her guest up any longer, she went to her room at last and undressed in a sort of a reverie, her glance inward turned, her head slightly on one side, and with such a look of thoughtful exaltation that I wish I could paint it for you, because I know I can never put it into words.

Still, if you can picture Betsey Ross, it was thus perhaps that Betsey looked when first she saw the flag.

Or Joan of Arc might once have gazed that way in Orleans’ woods.

CHAPTER XV