Ethel read it many times.  She could hear the voice of the little “prof,” now earnest, scornful, pleading, now obstinate and angry, again light-hearted, mocking.  She recalled how their leader had warned them against the bribery of men.  Most of the girls had smiled at her then, for they had felt themselves so strong and clear in their aims and desires.

“Oh, Ethel—­Ethel—­Ethel Knight.  How have the mighty fallen.  One week in New York and your eyes were glued to the windows of shops.  You got ready to dance and find a man.”

The thought rose in her mind—­“That was Amy’s idea.”  But she dismissed it with a frown.  She turned back to the letters and read them all through over again.  She rose and walked slowly up and down with her hands locked behind her.  Then she went to her desk, and to the round robin she added this: 

“I am in New York and have nothing to say.  I have been a fool.  I have spent nearly all my money on a lot of silly clothes.  No, not silly—­fetching clothes—­for they were meant to fetch a man.  But in getting them I got nothing else.  I have had a shock—­a terrible one.  My sister Amy suddenly died.  I am here now to care for her child.  But am I?  Nothing of the kind.  The nurse does that and I do nothing.  I just sit or walk about and scowl at what I am missing.  No more from me, girls, until the round robin—­the dear splendid thrilling round robin—­comes back here on its next yearly round.  I swear I’ll have a job by then!  Good luck and God bless us all!  We’re young!”

Quickly she crammed all the letters into a large envelope, licked it, pressed it firmly down, and addressed it to, “Miss Barbara Wells, Bismarck, North Dakota.”  She stamped it, felt the tears come, kissed the letter a fierce good-bye, took it out and dropped it in the mail box in the hall.  Then she came back to her own room, and with swift, determined jerks took off the black cloth wrapping of a large old-fashioned typewriter, one of the few belongings she had brought from Ohio.  She had purchased it several years ago, and by typing sermons and other occasional documents she had earned almost money enough for the clothes that had cost so little at home.

She sat down and began to pound the keys, but soon she stopped and shook her head.  She had never been an expert.  Self-taught, her work had been laboured and slow, and the lapse of months had thrown her out.  “However!  Something must be done!” And the pounding went on for days and days, hour after hour; and when her fingers, wrists and arms felt like “two long tooth-aches,” she exclaimed impatiently: 

“Oh, for goodness sake stop being so soft!  You’re a new woman, Ethel Knight, and you’re going to earn your living!”

At times, however, stopping to rest and carefully scan her labour for faults, her mind would rove far out into life.  She was copying from two books the little “prof” had given her, the “Life and Letters of George Sand”; and “The Work of Susan B. Anthony.”  And as Ethel pounded on, each book in its own way revealed exciting vistas to her eyes of life in great cities both here and abroad, life earnest and inspiring, life bright and thrilling, brilliant, free!