Mary Minds Her Business

by George Weston

CHAPTER XXVII

Meanwhile, as you will guess, it hadn't been "all roses and lilies" either, for the men who had gone on strike.

"Didn't you say you expected trouble?" Mary asked Archey one morning just after the big strike was declared.

"Yes," he told her. "They were talking that way. But they are so sure now that we'll have to give in, that they are quite good natured about it."

Mary said nothing, but her back grew stiff, something like Mrs. Ridge's; and when she saw Uncle Stanley in the outer office a few minutes later and he smiled without looking at her—smiled and shook his head to himself as though he were thinking of something droll—Mary went back to her room in a hurry, and stayed there until she felt tranquil again.

"What are the men saying now?" she asked Archey the following week.

"They are still taking it as a sort of a joke," he told her, "but here and there you catch a few who are looking thoughtful—especially those who have wives or daughters working here."

That pleased her.

The next time the subject was mentioned, Archey brought it up himself.

"There was quite a fight on Jay Street yesterday," he said.

As Mary knew, Jay Street was the headquarters of the strikers, and suddenly she became all attention.

"Those out-of-town agitators are beginning to feel anxious, I guess. Two of them went around yesterday whispering that the women at the factory needed a few good scares, so they'd stay home where they belonged. They tackled Jimmy Kelly, not knowing his wife works here. 'What do you mean: good scares?' he asked. 'Rough stuff,' they told him, on the quiet. 'What do you mean, rough stuff?' he asked them. They whispered something—nobody knows what it was—but they say Jimmy fell on them both like a ton of bricks on two bad eggs. 'Try a little rough stuff, yourself,' he said, 'and maybe you'll stay home where you belong.'"

Mary's eyes shone. It may be that blood called to blood, for if you remember one of those Josiah Spencers on the walls had married a Mary McMillan.

"It's things like that," she said, "that sometimes make me wish I was a man," and straightway went and interviewed Mrs. James Kelly, and gave her a message of thanks to be conveyed to her double-fisted husband.

The next week Mary didn't have to ask Archey what the men were doing, because one of the Sunday papers had made a special story of the subject.

Some of the men were getting work elsewhere, she read.

Others were on holidays, or visiting friends out of town.

Some were grumpy, some were merry, one had been caught red-handed—or at least blue-aproned—cooking his own dinner. All who could be reached had been asked how they thought the strike would end, and the reply which I am quoting is typical of many.

"They may bungle through with a few bearings for a while," said Mr. Reisinger, "but they won't last long. It stands to reason that a woman can't do man's work and get away with it."

Mary was walking through the factory the next day when she heard two women discussing that article.

"I told Sam Reisinger what I thought about him last night," said the younger. "He was over to our house for supper.

"'So it stands to reason, does it?' I said to him, 'that a woman can't do a man's work and get away with it? Well, I like your nerve! What do you understand by a man's work?' I said to him.

"'Do you think she ought to have all the meanest, hardest work in the world, and get paid nothing for it, working from the time she gets up in the morning till she goes to bed at night? Is that your idea of woman's work?' I said to him. 'But any nice, easy job that only has to be worked at four hours in the morning, and four hours in the afternoon, and has a pay envelope attached to it: I suppose you think that's a man's work!' I said to him.

"'Listen to me, Sam Reisinger, there's no such thing as man's work, and there's no such thing as woman's work,' I said to him. 'Work's work, and it makes no difference who does it, as long as it gets done!

"'Take dressmaking,' I said to him. 'I suppose you call that woman's work. Then how about Worth, and those other big men dressmakers?

"'Maybe you think cooking is woman's work. Then how about the chefs at the big hotels?' I said to him.

"'Maybe you think washing is woman's work. Then how about the steam laundries where nearly all the shirt ironers are men?' I said to him.

"'Maybe you think that working in somebody else's house is woman's work.
Then how about that butler up at Miss Spencer's?' I said to him.

"'And maybe we can bungle through with a few bearings for a while, can we?' I said to him, very polite. 'Well, let me tell you one thing, Sam Reisinger, if that's the way you think of women, you can bungle over to the movies with yourself tomorrow night. I'm not going with you!'"

For a long time after that when things went wrong, Mary only had to recall some of the remarks which had been made to a certain Mr. Sam Reisinger on a certain Sunday afternoon, and she always felt better for it.

"What are the men saying now?" she asked Archey at the end of their first good week.

"They're not saying much, but I think they're up to something. They've called a special meeting for tonight."

The next morning was Sunday. Mary was hardly downstairs when Archey called.

"I've found out about their meeting last night," he said. "They have appointed a committee to try to have a boycott declared on our bearings."

It didn't take Mary long to see that this might be a mortal thrust unless it were parried.

"But how can they?" she asked.

"They are going to try labour headquarters first. 'Unfair to labour'—that's what they are going to claim it is—to allow women to do what they're doing here. They're going to try to have a boycott declared, so that no union man will handle Spencer bearings, the teamsters won't truck them, the railways won't ship them, the metal workers and mechanics won't install them, and no union man will use a tool or a machine that has a Spencer bearing in it. That's their program. That's what they are going to try to do."

From over the distance came the memory of Ma'm Maynard's words:

"I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so and it halways will: Everything that lives has its own natural enemy—and a woman's natural enemy—eet is man!"

"No, sir!" said Mary to herself, as resolutely as ever, "I don't believe it. They're trying to gain their point—that's all—the same as I'm trying to gain mine…. But aren't they fighting hard when they do a thing like that…!"

It came to her then with a sharp sense of relief that no organization—no union—could well afford to boycott products simply because they were made by women. "Because then," she thought, "women could boycott things that were made by unions, and I'm sure the unions wouldn't want that."

She mentioned this to Archey and it was decided that Judge Cutler should follow the strikers' committee to Washington and present the women's side of the case.

Archey went, but the atmosphere of worry which he had brought with him stayed behind. Mary seemed to breathe it all day and to feel its oppression every time she awoke in the night.

"What a thing it would be," she thought, "if they did declare a boycott! All the work we've done would go for nothing—all our hopes and plans—everything wiped right out—and every woman pushed right back in her trap—and a man sitting on the lid—with a boycott in his hand…!"

The next day after a bad night, she was listlessly turning over the pages of a production report, when Mrs. Kelly came in glowing with enthusiasm, holding in her hand a book from the rest room library.

"Miss Spencer," she said, "it's in this book that over on the other side the women in the factories had orchestras. I wonder if we couldn't have an orchestra now!"

Mary's listlessness vanished.

"I've talked it over with a lot of the women," continued Mrs. Kelly, "and they think it's great. I've come to quite a few that play different instruments. I only wish I knew my notes, so I could play something, too."

Mary thought that over. It didn't seem right to her that the originator of the idea couldn't take part in it.

"Couldn't you play the drum?" she suddenly asked.

"Why, so I could!" beamed Mrs. Kelly in rare delight. "Do you mind then if I start a subscription for the instruments?"

"No; I'll do that, if you'll promise to play the drum."

"It's a promise," agreed Mrs. Kelly, and when she reached the hall outside and saw the size of Mary's subscription she joyfully smote an imaginary sheepskin, "Boom…. Boom…. Boom-boom-boom…!"

That is the week that Wally was married—with a ceremony that Helen had determined should be the social event of the year.

She was busy with her plans for weeks, making frequent trips to New York and Boston in the building up of her trousseau, arranging the details of the breakfast, making preparations for the decorations at the church and at the house on the hill, preparing and revising her list of those to be invited, ordering the cake and the boxes, attending to the engraving, choosing the music, keeping in touch with the bridesmaids and their dresses.

"Why, she's as busy as I am," thought Mary one day, in growing surprise at Helen's knowledge and ability; and dimly she began to see that in herself and Helen were embodied two opposite ideas of feminine activity.

"Of course she believes her way is the best," continued Mary thoughtfully, "just the same as I believe mine is. But I can't help thinking that it's best to be doing something useful, something that really makes a difference in the world—so that at the end of every week we can say to ourselves, 'Well, I did this' or 'I did that'—'I haven't lived this week for nothing….'"

Mary started dreaming then, and the next day when she accompanied Helen up the aisle of St. Thomas's as maid of honour, her eyes went dreamier still. And yet if you had been there I think you might have seen the least trace of a shadow in their depths—just the least suspicion of a wavering, unguessed doubt.

But when Wally, with his wife at his side, started his car an hour later and rolled smoothly on his wedding tour in search of the great adventure, in search of the sweetest story—Mary changed her dress and hurried back to the factory where she made a tour of her own. And as she walked through the workshops with their long lines of contented women, passing up one aisle and down another—nearly every face turning for a moment and flashing her a smile—the shadows vanished from her eyes and her doubts went with them.

"This is the best," she told herself, "I'm sure I did right, choosing this instead of Wally. It's best for me, and best for these three thousand women—" Her imagination caught fire. She saw her three thousand pioneers growing into three hundred thousand, into three million. A moment of greatness fell upon her and in fancy she thus addressed her unsuspecting workers:

"You are doing something useful—something that you can be proud of. Your daily labour isn't wasted. There isn't a country in the world that won't profit by it.

"Because of these bearings which you are making, automobiles and trucks will carry their loads more easily, tractors will plough better, engines will run longer, water will be pumped more quickly, electric light will be sold for less money.

"You are helping transportation—agriculture—commerce. And if that isn't better, nobler work than washing, ironing, getting your own meals, washing your own dishes, and doing the same old round of profitless chores day after day, and year after year, from the hour you are old enough to work, till the hour you are old enough to die—well, then, I'm wrong and Helen's right; and I ought to have married Wally—and not one of you women ought to be here today!"

A whisper arose in her mind. "….Somebody's got to do the housework…."

"Yes, but it needn't take up a woman's whole life," she shortly told herself, "any more than it does a man's. I'm sure there must be some way…some way…."

She stopped, a sudden flush striking along her cheek as she caught the first glimpse of her golden vision—that vision which may some day change the history of the human race. "Oh, if I only could!" she breathed to herself. "If I only could!"

She slowly returned to the office. Judge Cutler was waiting to see her, just back from his visit to Washington.

"Well?" she asked eagerly, shutting the door. "Are they going to boycott us?"

"I don't think so," he answered. "I told them how it started. As far as I can find out, the strike here is a local affair. The men I saw disclaimed any knowledge or responsibility for it.

"Of course, I pointed out that women had the vote now, and that boycotts were catching…. But I don't think you need worry.

"They're splendid men—all of them. I'm sure you'd like them, Mary. They are all interested in what you are doing, but I think they are marking time a little—waiting to see how things turn out before they commit themselves one way or the other."

Mary thrilled at that.

"More than ever now it depends on me," she thought, and another surge of greatness seemed to lift her like a flood.

The judge's voice recalled her.

"On my way back," he was saying, "I stopped in New York and engaged a firm of accountants to come and look over the books. They are busy now, but I told them there was no hurry—that we only wanted their suggestions—"

"I had forgotten about that," said Mary.

"So had I. What do you suppose reminded me of it?"

She shook her head.

"One of the first men I saw in Washington was Burdon Woodward."

"I think it just happened that way," said Mary uneasily. "He told me he was going away for a few days, but I'm sure he only did it to get out of going to Helen's wedding."

"Well, anyhow, no harm done. It was the sight of him down there that reminded me: that's all…. How has everything been running here? Smoothly, I hope?"

Smoothly, yes. That was the week when Mary sent her letters to the papers, announcing that the women at Spencer & Son's had not only equalled past outputs, but were working within a closer degree of accuracy.

And all that month, and the next month, and the next, the work at Spencer & Son's kept rolling out as smoothly as though it were moving on its own bearings—not only the mechanical, but the welfare work as well.

The dining room was re-modelled, as you will presently see. The band progressed, as you will presently hear. The women were proud and happy in the work they were doing, and Mary was proud because they were proud, happy because they were happy, and all the time she was nursing another secret, no one dreaming what was in her mind.

Along in the third month, Wally and Helen came back from their wedding tour. Mary looked once, and she saw there was something wrong with Wally. A shadow of depression hung over him—a shadow which he tried to hide with bursts of cheerfulness. But his old air of eagerness was gone—that air with which he had once looked at the future as a child might stare with delighted eyes at a conjurer drawing rabbits and roses out of old hats and empty vases.

In a word, he looked disenchanted, as though he had seen how the illusion was produced, how the trick was done, and was simultaneously abating his applause for the performer and his interest in the show.

"He's found her out," thought Mary, and with that terrible frankness which sometimes comes unbidden to our minds she added with a sigh, "I was always afraid he would."

Wally had taken a house near the country club—one of those brick mansions surrounded by trees and lawns which are somehow reminiscent of titled society and fox hunters in buckskin and scarlet. There Helen was soon working her way to the leadership of the younger set.

She seldom called at the house on the hill.

"I'm generally dated up for the evening, and you're never there in the daytime. So I have to drop in and see you here," she said one afternoon, giving Mary a surprise visit at the office. "Do you, know you're getting to be fashionable?" she continued.

"Who? Me?"

"Yes. You. Nearly everywhere we went, they began quizzing us as soon as they found Miss Spencer was a cousin of mine."

Mary noted Helen's self-promotion to the head of the cousinship, but she kept her usual tranquil expression.

"It's because she's Mrs. Cabot now," she thought. "Perhaps she wouldn't have called at all if these people hadn't mentioned me!"

But when Helen arose to go, Mary revised her opinion of the reason for her cousin's call.

"Well, I must be going," said Helen, rising. "I'll drop in and see Burdon for a few minutes on my way out."

"That's it," thought Mary, and her reflections again taking upon themselves that terrible frankness which can seldom be put in words, she added to herself, "Poor Wally…. I was always afraid of it…."

She was still looking out of the window in troubled meditation when the arrival of the afternoon mail turned her thoughts into another track. As Helen had said, the New Bethel experiment had become fashionable. Taking it as their text, the women's clubs throughout the country were giving much of their time to a discussion of the changed industrial relations due to the war. Increasingly often, visitors appeared at the factory, asking if they could see for themselves—well-known, even famous figures among them. But on the afternoon when Helen Cabot made her first call, Mary received a letter which took her breath away, so distinguished, so illustrious were the names of those who were asking if they could pay a visit on the following day.

Mary sent a telegram and then, her cheeks coloured with pride, she made a tour through the factory to make sure that everything would be in order, whispering the news here and there, and knowing that every woman would hear it as unmistakably as though it had been pealed from the heavens in tones of thunder.

The visitors arrived at ten o'clock the next morning.

There were four in the party—two men and two women. Mary recognized three of them at the first glance and felt a glow of pride warm her as they seated themselves in her office.

"Not even you," she thought with a glance at the attentive figures on the walls, "not even you ever had visitors like these." And in some subtle manner which I simply cannot describe to you, she felt that the portrayed figures were proud of the visitors, too—and prouder yet of the dreamy-eyed girl who had brought it about, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood, who was looking so queenly and chatting so quietly to the elect of the earth.

The fourth caller was introduced as Professor Marsh, and Mary soon perceived that he was a hostile critic.

"I shall have to be careful of him," she thought, "or I shall be giving him some good, hard bouncers before I know it—and that would never do today." So putting the temptation behind her she presently said, "We'll start at the nursery, if you like—any time you're ready."

You have already seen something of that nursery, its long row of windows facing the south, its awnings, toys, sand-piles and white-robed nurses. Since then Mary had had time to elaborate the original theme with a kitchen for preparing their majesties' food, linen closets and a rest-room for the nurses.

The chief glory of the nursery, however, was its noble line of play-rooms, each in charge of two nurses.

"Let's look in here," said Mary, opening a door.

They came upon an interesting scene. In this room were twelve children, about two years old. The nurses were feeding them. Each nurse sat on the inside of a kidney shaped table, large enough to accommodate six children, but low enough to avoid the necessity for high chairs with the consequent dangling between earth and heaven.

In front of each child was a plate set in a recess in the table—this to guard against overturning in the excitement of the moment—and in each plate was a generous portion of chicken broth poured over broken bread.

It was evidently good. Approval shone on each pink face. A brisk play of spoons and the smacking of lips seemed to be the order of the day.

"Each play room has its own wash room—" said Mary.

She opened another door belonging to this particular suite and disclosed a bathroom with special fixtures for babies. Large bowls, with hot and cold water, were set in porcelain tables.

"What's the use of having so many bath-bowls in this table," asked
Professor Marsh, "when you only have two nurses to do the bathing?"

"Every woman with a baby has half an hour off in the morning, and another half hour in the afternoon," he was told. "In the morning, she bathes her baby. In the afternoon she loves it."

In the next play-room which they visited, the babies were of the bottle age, and were proving this to the satisfaction of every one concerned.

In the next, refreshments were over; and some of the youngsters slept while others were starting large engineering projects upon the sand pile.

"I never saw such nurseries," said the most distinguished visitor. He looked at the artistic miniature furniture, the decorations, the low padded seat which ran around the walls—at once a seat and a cupboard for toys. He looked at the sunlight, the screened verandah, the awning, the flowers, the birds hopping over the lawn, the river gleaming through the trees.

"Miss Spencer," he said, "I congratulate you. If they could understand me, I would congratulate these happy youngsters, too."

"But don't you think it's altogether wrong," said Professor Marsh, "to deprive a child of the advantages of home life?"

"I read and hear that so often," said Mary, "that I have adopted my own method of replying to it."

She led her visitors into a small room with a low ceiling. It was furnished with a cookstove, a table, a small side-board, an old conch and a few chairs. The floor was splintery and only partly covered by frayed rugs and worn oil cloth. The paper on the walls was a dark mottled green. The ceiling was discoloured by smoke.

"This is the kitchen of an average wage-earner," said Mary. "Some are better. Some are worse. I bought the furniture out of a room, just as it stood, and had the whole place copied in detail."

Three of the visitors looked at each other.

"Imagine a tired woman," continued Mary, "standing over that stove—perhaps expecting another baby before long. She has been washing all morning and now she is cooking. The room is damp with steam, the ceiling dotted with flies. Then imagine a child crawling around the floor, its mother too busy to attend to it, and you'll get an idea of where some of these children in the nursery would be—if they weren't here. Mind," she earnestly continued, "I'm not saying that home life for poor children doesn't have its advantages, but we mustn't forget that it has its disadvantages, too."

She led them next to the kindergarten.

A recess was on and the children were out in the play-ground—some swinging, some sliding down the chutes, others playing in a merry-go-round which was pushed around by hand.

"Every other hour they have for play," said Mary. "In the alternate hours the teachers read to them, talk to them, teach them their letters, teach them to sing and give them the regular kindergarten course. If they weren't here," she said, half turning to Professor Marsh, "most of them would probably be playing on the street."

The next place they visited was the dining room—which occupied the upper floor of one of the great buildings which Mary's father had planned. But to look at it, you would never have suspected the original purpose for which the place had been intended. It was a dining room that any hotel would be glad to call its own, with its forest-colour decorations, its growing palms and ferns on every side.

"The compartments around the walls are for the families," explained Mary. "It is, of course, optional with those who work here whether they use the dining room or not. We supply all food at cost. This was this morning's breakfast."

The bill of fare is too long to quote in full, but the visitors noted that it included a choice of fruit, choice of cereal, choice of tea, coffee, milk or cocoa—and for the main dish, either fish, ham and eggs, oyster stew or small steak.

"What you have seen so far," said Mary, "is a side issue. Many of our workers are young women not yet married, others have some one at home to look after the children. In fact the woman with a baby or little children is in the minority, but I thought it only right to provide for them—for a number of reasons—"

"Including sympathy?" smiled one of the ladies.

Mary gave her a grateful glance.

"We will now have an inspection of our real work here," she said, "—the same being the manufacture of bearings."

The first room they entered was the ground floor of one of the buildings which housed the automatic department. At the nearer machines were long lines of women stamping out the metal discs which held the balls and rollers in their places.

"When these machines were operated by men," said Mary, "it required considerable strength to throw the levers. But by a very simple improvement we changed the machines so that the lightest touch on the handle is sufficient to do the work. We also put backs on the stools—and elbow rests—and racks for the feet—"

They followed her glances to each of these changes but their attention soon turned to the business-like speed and precision with which each woman did her work.

"Women, of course, are naturally quick," said Mary as though reading their thoughts. "You know what they can do on a typewriter, for instance—or on a sewing machine. As you can see, it is much simpler to operate one of these automatic machines than it is to typewrite a legal document—or make a dress."

Together they looked up the long aisle at the double line of workers in their creams and browns, their fingers deftly placing the blanks in position and removing the finished discs. Somewhere, unseen, a phonograph started playing a lively tune.

"Where do they get their flowers?" asked one of the guests, noticing that each woman was wearing a rose or a carnation.

"They find them in their locker rooms every morning," said Mary. "They usually sing when the phonograph plays," she added, "but perhaps they feel nervous—at having company—"

This was confirmed when they left the room, for as they stood in the hallway first a hum was heard behind them here and there, and soon a mellow toned chorus arose.

"They certainly seem happy," said one of the visitors.

"They are," said Mary. "And, indeed, why shouldn't they be? Their work is light and interesting; they are paid well; and more than anything else, I think, they all know they are making something useful—something tangible—something they can look upon with satisfaction and pride."

They ascended a stairway and suddenly the scene changed. Below, the work had been cast as though in a light staccato key, but here the music for the machinery had a more powerful note.

"These are the oscillating grinders," said Mary, raising her voice above the skirling symphony. "It isn't everybody who can run them."

She wondered whether her visitors caught the unconscious air of pride which many of the women wore in this department. At one end of the room a steady stream of rough castings came flowing in, while at the other end an equally steady volume of finished cones went flowing out. Mary had always liked to watch the oscillators and as she stood there, her guests temporarily forgotten, her eyes filled with the almost human movements of the whirling machines, her ears with the triumphant music of the abrasive wheels biting into the metal, that same unconscious air of pride fell upon her, too, and although she didn't know it, her glance deepened and her head went up—quite in the old Spencer manner.

"Is their work fairly accurate?" asked one of the visitors, breaking the spell.

"Let's go and see," said Mary, leading the way.

The cones left the grinders upon an endless conveyor which carried them to an inspection room. Here at long tables were lines of attentive women, each with a set of gauges in front of her. The visitors stopped behind one of these inspectors just as she picked up a cone to put it through its course of tests.

First she slipped it into a gauge to see if it was too large. A pointer on a dial before her swung to "O.K." Almost without stopping the motion of her hand, she inserted it into another gauge to see if it was too small. Again the pointer swung to "O.K." The third test was to verify the angle of the cone, and for the third time the pointer said "O.K." The next moment the cone had been dropped into a box and another was going through the same course.

"How many have been rejected today?" asked one of the visitors.

"Two," said the inspector.

These two unfortunates lay on a rack in front of her. Interrupting her work she picked up one of them. At the second operation the pointer turned to a red segment of the dial and a bell rang.

"I don't hear many bells ringing," commented the visitor, quizzically looking around the room.

Mary smiled with quiet pleasure.

"Next," she said, "I'm going to take you to a department where women never worked before."

She led the way to one of the tempering buildings—a building equipped with long lines of ovens—each as large as a baker's oven—where metal cones were heated instead of rolls.

"Here, too, as you will see," said Mary, "we have tried to reduce the element of human error as far as possible. In each oven is an electric thermometer and when the bearings have reached the proper degree of heat, an incandescent bulb is automatically lighted in front of the oven…. See?"

They made their way to the oven where a white light had appeared. A woman-worker had already opened the door and was pulling a lever. As though by magic, a bunch of castings, wired together, came travelling out of their heat bath and were immediately lowered into a large tank which held the tempering liquid.

"What would have happened if the oven hadn't been opened when the white light appeared?" asked another of the visitors.

"In five minutes a red lamp would have been automatically lighted," said
Mary "—a signal for the forewoman to come and take charge of the oven."

"And suppose the red lamp had been disregarded?"

"In five minutes more an alarm bell would have started. You would have heard it over half the factory—and it would have kept ringing until the superintendent herself had come and stopped it with a key which only she is allowed to carry."

"Is that the bell now?" he asked, as a mellow chime came from one of the distant buildings.

"No," smiled Mary, listening, "that's the lunch bell. In another ten minutes I shall have a surprise for you."

At the end of that time, they made their way to the dining room, which was already filled with eager women. In one corner was a private room, glass-partitioned. As Mary followed her guests toward it, the full, subdued strains of the Crusader March suddenly sounded in harmonious greeting from the other end of the room.

"Ah!" said the most distinguished visitor, turning to look. "Men at last!"

Mary let him look and then she beamed with pleasure at his glance of appreciation.

"Our own orchestra—one hundred pieces," she said. "This is their first public appearance."

Oh, but it was a red-letter day for Mary!

Whether it was the way she felt, or because the sound became softened and mellowed in travelling the length of the dining room, it seemed to her that she had never heard music so sweet, had never listened to sounds that filled her heart so full or lifted her thoughts so high.

The climax came at the end of the dessert. A shy girl entered, a small leather box in her hand.

"I have a souvenir for your visitor, Miss Spencer," she said, and turning to him she added, "We made it with our own hands, thinking you might like to use it as a paper weight—as a reminder of what women can do."

The box was lined with blue velvet and contained a small model of the Spencer bearing, made of gold, perfect to the last ball and the last roller. The visitor examined it with admiration—every eye in the dining room (which could be brought to bear) watching him through the glass partition.

"If I ever received a more interesting souvenir," he said, "I fail to recall it. Thank you, and please thank the others for me. Tell them how very much I appreciate it, and tell them, too, if you will, that here in this factory today I have had my outlook on life widened to an extent which I had thought impossible. For that, too, I thank you."

Of course they couldn't hear him in the main room, but they could see when he had finished speaking. They clapped their hands; the band played; and when he arose and bowed, they clapped and played louder than before. And a few minutes later when the party left the dining room to the strains of El Capitan, it seemed to Mary that after the closing chord she heard two vigorous beats of the drum—soul expression of Mrs. Kelly, signifying "That's us!"

The visitors departed at last, and Mary returned to her office to find other callers awaiting her.

The first was Helen, togged to the nines.

"Somehow she heard they were here," thought Mary, "and she came down thinking to meet them. She thought surely I would bring them in here again." But her next reflection made her frown a little. "—Partly that, I guess," she thought, "and partly to see Burdon, as usual."

A knock on the door interrupted her, and Joe entered, bearing two cards.

"These gentlemen have been waiting since noon," he announced, "but they said they didn't mind waiting when I told them who was with you."

The cards bore the name of a firm of public accountants.

"Oh, yes," said Mary. "Show them in, please, Joe. And ask Mr. Burdon if I can see him for a few minutes."

If you had been there, you might have noticed a change pass over Helen. A moment before Burdon's name was mentioned she was sitting relaxed and rather dispirited, as you sometimes see a yacht becalmed, riding the water without life or interest. But as soon as it appeared that Burdon was about to enter, a breeze suddenly seemed to fill Helen's sails. Her beauty, passive before, became active. Her bunting fluttered. Her flags began to fly.

The door opened, but Helen's smiling glance was disappointed. The two auditors entered.

One was grey, the other was young; but each had the same pale, incurious air of detachment. They reminded Mary of two astronomy professors of her college days, two men who had just such an air of detachment, who always seemed to be out of their element in the daylight, always waiting for the night to come to resume the study of their beloved stars.

"I have sent for our treasurer, Mr. Woodward," said Mary. "Won't you be seated for a few minutes?"

They sat down in the same impersonal way and glanced around the room with eyes that seemed to see nothing. By the side of the mantel was a framed piece of history, an itemized bill of the first generation of the firm, dated June 28, 1706, and quaint with its old spelling, its triple column of pounds, shillings and pence.

"May I look at that?" asked one of the accountants, rising. The other followed him. Their heads bent over the document…. It occurred to Mary that they were verifying the addition.

Again the door opened and this time it was Burdon, his dashing personality immediately dominating the room.

Mary introduced the accountants to him.

"With our new methods," she said, "we probably need a new system of bookkeeping. I also want to compare our old costs with present costs—"

Burdon stared at her, but Mary—half-ashamed of what she was doing—kept her glance upon the two accountants.

"Mr. Burdon will give you all the old records, all the old books you want," she said, "and will help you in every possible way—"

And still Burdon stared at her—his whole life concentrated for a moment in his glance. And still Mary looked at the two accountants who completed the triangle by looking at Burdon, as they naturally would, waiting for him to turn and speak to them. As Mary watched them, she became conscious of a change in their manner, a tenseness of interest, such as the two astronomers aforesaid might display at the sight of some disturbance in the heavens.

"What do they see?" she thought, and looked at Burdon. But Burdon at the same moment had turned to the accountants, his manner as large, his air as dashing as ever.

"Anything you want, gentlemen," he said, "you have only to ask for it."

When Mary reached home that evening, you can imagine how Aunt Patty and Aunt Cordelia listened to her recital, their white heads nodding at the periods, their cheeks pink with pride. Now and then they exchanged glances. "Our baby!" these glances seemed to say, and then turned back to Mary with such love and admiration that finally the object of this pantomime could stand it no longer, but had to kiss them both till their cheeks turned pinker than ever and they gasped for breath.

That night, when Mary went to her room and stood at the window, looking out at the world below and the sky above, she threw out her arms and, turning her face to the moonlight, she felt that world-old wish to express the inexpressible, to put immortal yearnings into mortal words.

Life—thankfulness for life—a joy so deep that it wasn't far from pain—hoping—longing-yearning … for what? Mary herself could not have told you—perhaps to be one with the starlight and the scent of flowers—to have the freedom of infinity—to express the inexpressible—

For a long time she stood at the window, the moon looking down upon her and bathing her face in its radiance…. Insensibly then the earth recalled her and her thoughts began to return to the events of the day.

"Oh, yes," she suddenly said to herself, "I knew there was something….
I wonder why the accountants stared at Burdon so…."