In answer to her ring, Joe knocked and entered, respectful admiration in his eye.  You may remember Joe, “the brightest boy in the office.”  In the three years that Mary had known him, he had grown and was now in the transient stage between office boy and clerk—­wore garters around his shirt sleeves to keep his cuffs up, feathered his hair in the front, and wore a large black enamel ring with the initial “J” worked out in “diamonds.”

“Joe,” she said, “I want you to bring me the employment cards of all the women who worked here during the war.  And send Miss Haskins in, please; I want to write a circular letter.”

She hurried him away with a nod and a quick smile.

“Gee, I wish there was a lion or something out here,” he thought as he hurried through the hall to the outer office, and after he had taken Mary the cards and sent Miss Haskins in, he proudly remarked to the other clerks, “Maybe they thought she’d faint away and call for the doctor when they went on strike, but, say, she hasn’t turned a hair.  I’ll bet she’s up to something, too.”

It wasn’t a long letter that Mary sent to the list of names which she gave Miss Haskins, but it had that quiet pull and power which messages have when they come from the heart.

“Oh, I know a lot will come,” said Mrs. Ridge when Mary showed her a copy of it.  “They would come anyhow, Miss Spencer.  Most of them never made money like they made it here.  They’ve been away long enough now to miss it and—­Ha-ha-a!—­Excuse me.”  She suddenly checked herself and looked very red and solemn.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Mary.

“I was thinking of my next door neighbour, Mrs. Strauss.  She’s never through saying that the year she was here was the happiest year of her life; and how she’d like to come back again.  She’ll be one of the first to come—­I know she will.  And her husband is one of the strikers—­that’s the funny part of it!”

Mary smiled herself at that, and she smiled again the next morning when she saw the women coming through the gate.

“Report in your old locker room,” her letter had read, “and bring your working clothes.”

By nine o’clock more than half the automatic machines were busy, and women were still arriving.

“The canteen’s going again,” ran the report up and down the aisles.

At half past ten the old gong sounded in the lathe room, and the old tea wagon began its old-time trundling.  In addition to refreshments each woman received a rose-bud—­“From Miss Spencer.  With thanks and best wishes.”

“Do you know if the piano’s here yet?” asked a brisk looking matron in sky blue overalls.

“Yep,” nodded the tea girl.  “When I came through, they were taking the cover off it, and fixing up the rest room.”

“Isn’t it good to be back again!” said the brisk young matron to her neighbour.  “Believe me or not, I haven’t seen a dancing floor since I quit work here.”