While she was speaking, the genial secretary was doing some hard thinking.  This little messenger from the up-country had carried her message right into the heart of one woman, one who was accustomed to carry her impulses into action.

* * * * *

The Local Council of Women of the City of Edmonton met the next day in the club-room of the Y.W.C.A., and it was a well-attended meeting, for the subject to be discussed was that of “National Service for Women.”  As the time drew near for the meeting to begin, it became evident that great interest was being taken in the subject, for the room was full, and animated discussions were going on in every corner.  This was not the first meeting that had been held on this subject, and considerable indignation was heard that no notice had been taken by the Government of the request that had been sent in some months previous, asking that women be registered for national service as well as men.

“They never even replied to our suggestion,” one woman said.  “You would have thought that common politeness would have prompted a reply.  It was a very civil note that we sent—­I wrote it myself.”

“Hush!  Don’t be hard on the Government,” said an older woman, looking up from her knitting.  “They have their own troubles—­think of Quebec!  And then you know women’s work is always taken for granted; they know we will do our bit without being listed or counted.”

“But I want to do something else besides knitting,” the first speaker said; “it could be done better and cheaper anyway by machinery, and that would set a lot of workers free.  Why don’t we register ourselves, all of us who mean business?  This is our country, and if the Government is asleep at the switch, that is no reason why we should be.  I tell you I am for conscription for every man and woman.”

“Well, suppose we all go with you and sign up—­name, age, present address; married?—­if so, how often?—­and all that sort of thing; what will you do with us, then?” asked Miss Wheatly, who was just back from the East where she had been taking a course in art.  “I am tired of having my feelings all wrought upon and then have to settle down to knitting a dull gray sock or the easy task of collecting Red Cross funds from perfectly willing people who ask me to come in while they make me a cup of tea.  I feel like a real slacker, for I have never yet done a hard thing.  I did not let any one belonging to me go, for the fairly good reason that I have no male relatives; I give money, but I have never yet done without a meal or a new pair of boots when I wanted them.  There is no use of talking of putting me to work on a farm, for no farmer would be bothered with me for a minute, and the farmer’s wife has trouble enough now without giving her the care of a greenhorn like me—­why, I would not know when a hen wanted to set!”

“You do not need to know,” laughed the conscriptionist; “the hen will attend to that without any help from you; and, anyway, we use incubators now and the hen is exempt from all family cares—­she can have a Career if she wants to.”