As the days and weeks passed, Saxon was possessed by a conscious feeling of proud motherhood in her swelling breasts. So essentially a normal woman was she, that motherhood was a satisfying and passionate happiness. It was true that she had her moments of apprehension, but they were so momentary and faint that they tended, if anything, to give zest to her happiness.
Only one thing troubled her, and that was the puzzling and perilous situation of labor which no one seemed to understand, her self least of all.
“They're always talking about how much more is made by machinery than by the old ways,” she told her brother Tom. “Then, with all the machinery we've got now, why don't we get more?”
“Now you're talkin',” he answered. “It wouldn't take you long to understand socialism.”
But Saxon had a mind to the immediate need of things.
“Tom, how long have you been a socialist?”
“Eight years.”
“And you haven't got anything by it?”
“But we will... in time.”
“At that rate you'll be dead first,” she challenged.