"See here," said the matron, "you want to go easy—and only five minutes, mind you."
"My mother?" Rhona repeated, her heart near to bursting.
"No—some one else. Come along."
Rhona followed, half choking. The big door was unlocked before her and swung open; she peered out. It was Joe and Myra.
Seeing these faces of friends suddenly recalled her to her old world, to the struggle, the heroism, the strike, and, filled with a sense of her imprisonment and its injustice, she rushed blindly out into the open arms of Myra and was clutched close, close.
And then she sobbed, wept for minutes, purifying tears. And suddenly she had an inspiration, a flash of the meaning of her martyrdom, how it could be used as a fire and a torch to kindle and lead the others.
She lifted up her face.
"You tell the girls," she cried, "it's perfectly wonderful to be here. It's all right. Just you tell them it's all right. Any of them would be glad to do it!"
And then the matron, who was listening, stepped forward.
"Time's up!"