The ten days when Yetta had nominally been in prison, but was really resting her body and improving her mind on the warden's pleasant lawn, had been great days for the vest-makers.

The sudden publicity which her arrest had given their Cause turned the tide in their favor. None of the English papers gave an accurate nor intelligent account of the struggle, but in a vague way the generally listless public came to realize that a picturesque conflict was raging on the East Side between hundreds of half-starved women and the Powers of Greed. One could hardly call it sympathy, for sympathy requires some degree of understanding. But the conviction became widespread that it was not a "fair fight." The pathos writers were daily turning out miniature Uncle Tom's Cabins. And the society writers continued to give space to the new fad.

The strikers might have won considerable concessions without this fortuitous aid. They had tied up their trade for five weeks at the height of the rush season. Their enthusiasm and esprit du corps had grown with hunger and persecution. Even the biggest bosses had begun to wonder if it would not be cheaper to make some compromise. But certainly the strikers would not have won so quickly nor so largely if this unexpected force had not come to their assistance. The judge in Essex Market Court no longer dared to be so high-handed. The hired thugs were afraid that every passer-by was a reporter, every picket a society pet. The second day two of the bosses deserted the Association of Vest Manufacturers and settled with their forces. Once started, the stampede became general; every day more shops settled, and by the time Yetta was discharged the strike was practically over.

It was four o'clock of a Thursday afternoon when she was given back her own clothes and told that she was free. As she waited on the Island dock for the ferry to carry her across an unexpected wave of fear came over her. The city beyond the river looked hostile to her. Sooner or later the vest strike would end. What should she do then? She knew that the "strike" would not be over for her—it would last as long as she lived. But where was she to live, how was she to gain a living? How could she get the chance to study, which she felt to be her greatest need? This last was what troubled her most. It did not matter where she slept nor what she ate, but she needed the knowledge which is power. As the tug fought its way against the current and the city came closer and closer, it looked to her like some jealous monster which stood guard over a great treasure. Somehow she must do battle with it, for the prize must be hers. She felt herself very weak, and her armament seemed pitiable.

On the New York dock she found Mabel and Walter and Mrs. Karner waiting for her.

"Yetta, Yetta," Mabel laughed and cried, with her arms about her. "Remember what a crowd of girls came up to welcome the first ones who came out? Why do you suppose they're not here to welcome you? They're back at work. We've won! We've won!"

Yetta opened her big eyes very wide, but her heart was too jerky for her to speak. Over and above the joy of the dear victory was the exhilaration of friendship. It seemed as though these three friends had come down to meet and arm her for the fight for the treasure. Mabel's embrace was like armor, Mrs. Karner's kiss was a helmet, and in Longman's frank grip she felt a sword placed in her hand.

"Come on," Mrs. Karner said. "Climb into the motor. You're all going to have dinner with me. You've got to speak to-night, child—the biggest audience you ever saw—Carnegie Hall. They had lots of foolish plans to bother you, but I said 'No! I'll take her in hand and see that she gets a bath and clean clothes and a good meal and a little quiet to think out her speech.' Climb in."

As the car sped across the city, they explained to Yetta that Mrs. Van Cleave had donated the rent of Carnegie Hall—this before the strike had been won—and that, as all the arrangements were made, they had to have the meeting anyhow. It promised to be a big thing, as all those who were Mrs. Van Cleave's friends, or wanted to be, had scrambled for boxes, and all the two and one dollar seats had been sold.

Mrs. Karner was as good as her word. Once in the imposing house on Riverside Drive, she left Longman uncomfortably balanced on a Gothic chair in the library, and she and Mabel rushed Yetta into a bath even more dazzling than that which had so impressed her in the Washington Square flat.

"When any one gets herself arrested and wins a strike all by herself, and is going to make a speech to the Four Hundred, she has to let other people do things for her. So I got you some clothes."

At one of the meetings of the Advisory Council Mrs. Van Cleave had said, "Of course some one must see to it that she is decently dressed." Mrs. Karner had volunteered to attend to that, and, talking it over with Mabel, who brought some of Yetta's scanty wardrobe as a model, they had arranged a simple, becoming suit of soft brown corduroy.

"If you're tired, you can take a nap. We'll wake you for dinner."

"No," Yetta said. "I ain't sleepy. I want to hear about the strike."

So they arrayed her in the new dress and fussed around with her hair and at last brought her out into the library. For a while the four of them discussed the strike.

"Yetta," Mabel asked, changing the subject abruptly, "what are you going to do now?"

They had to wait several minutes before she answered.

"I don't know. I've been trying to think about that. There'll be more strikes, and I want to help in them. When there ain't nothing like that to do, I want to study. I've got to study a lot. You see I ain't been to school since I was fifteen, and you've all been to college. Of course I can't never go to college, but I'd like to learn all I can.

"I don't know what I'll do. I'd like to keep on being business agent of my union, if they ain't elected nobody else. But they can't pay me nothing. I suppose I'll go back to the trade. I don't know no other way to earn money. But I'd like to get out of it so I could study. I want to know more, so I can be of more use. Yes. I've got to study. I'll have to think about it."

"Well, there are two things we've got to suggest," Mrs. Karner said. "I suppose I'd better tell her Mrs. Van Cleave's offer first. You see, Yetta, you've made a great hit with her, and she's got oodles of money. She thinks you're very wonderful, just the way the rest of us do"—somehow Mrs. Karner's flattery was so kindly and laughing that it hardly made Yetta feel uncomfortable—"and she thinks you ought to have a college education. Look at the child's eyes open! Yes. It's true. She wants to pay all your expenses in preparatory school and Bryn Mawr. If you worked very hard, you could graduate in six or seven years. Mrs. Van Cleave really wants you to do it. Nobody asked her to nor suggested it. And she's very generous when she gets started. She'll give you a fat allowance, and you can dress just as well as the other girls. Miss Train and I have both been to college and we know what fun it is. Dances and all that. And it's nice to have good clothes. It's a great chance. You've got brains and lots of common sense, and you don't have to worry about any of the other girls being better looking than you are. You'll probably spend your vacations with Mrs. Van Cleave. You'll like as not marry a mil—"

Yetta knew that Mrs. Karner was mocking.

"Is it a good college to study?" she asked.

The two women were silent. Mabel was from Wisconsin and Mrs. Karner had gone to Mount Holyoke. Neither thought very highly of the college of Mrs. Van Cleave's choice. Longman answered the question.

"There isn't any woman's college in the country which has a higher standard of scholarship. It is one of the best there is in that way. If you want to be a 'scholar,' if you want to go in for Greek or mathematics or one of the sciences, a degree from Bryn Mawr is something to be proud of. But most of the girls are rich. I don't mean that they would be unkind to you. With Mrs. Van Cleave back of you, you don't need to worry—they'd probably go to the other extreme. But I don't believe you'd find many of the girls—or many of the faculty—interested in the problems of working people. Mrs. Van Cleave is very kind, but I think even she is more interested in you than in 'strikes.' As I say, if you want to be a 'scholar,' it's a good place. But if you want to be a labor agitator, if you want to fight for freedom, I don't think Bryn Mawr would help you much."

The excited glow in Yetta's eyes, the heightened color of her cheeks, died out.

"What's the other offer?" she asked. "You said there were two."

"Oh, it isn't any fairy godmother proposition, my dear Cinderella," Mrs. Karner said. "It's just everyday work. Nothing so fine as a college degree. It's in Miss Train's line, so she'd better tell you."

"No, Yetta," Mabel said. "This other offer is a pretty drab-colored affair. You know my old plan to try to ally all the garment workers, vests and coats and pants and cloaks and overalls, all in one big federated union like the building trades. Well, this vest strike has been so successful, I've been able to interest some of the ladies in my bigger scheme and they've put up the money so the league can hire a new organizer. It isn't as much as you could earn at the machine, but it is enough to live on. We all think you'd be the ideal person. You could keep on as business agent for the vest-makers. I know they want you, and even if they can't pay you anything, it would give you a standing with the Central Federated Union and even among the unorganized workers. They all know about how this strike won, and there's sure to be others soon. Of course there would be lots of work, but the ladies would be willing to let you have your mornings free to study. It isn't like going to college. But if you really want to educate yourself, you could do it. We'll all help you. I don't want to urge you. I want you to do the thing you think is best for yourself. And Mrs. Van Cleave's offer is very generous. But you know how much I would like to have you working with me in the League."

Yetta got up and went to the window. She knew that all the eyes were fixed on her back. She knew what they were thinking, and she resented it. They had all had a college education given them as a matter of course. They could not know what it meant to her. She could not get her wits together under their silent regard.

"I guess I'll go and lie down till dinner," she said. "I must think—about to-night's speech."

When she had disappeared, Longman broke out.

"Why can't you women be frank and say what you think? Mrs. Karner's proposal is better than Mrs. Van Cleave's. She'll make a horrible mistake if she ties up with a lot of millionnaire snobs."

"Mabel," Mrs. Karner said solemnly, "let us keep perfectly still and listen to some man-wisdom."

In the face of this jibe, Longman had nothing more to say.

"Does the lord of creation think," Mrs. Karner went on, "that little Yetta Rayefsky is only deciding whether she'll go to college or not?"

"Well, for God's sake, why don't you try to help her instead of making it harder for her?"

"Has the philosopher not yet discovered that some things are not decided until one decides them alone? Saint Paul had to go off to Arabia. Yetta's gone to my guest-room. You can help a person pay her rent and, if you've lots of tact and taste and insight, you can help her choose a becoming hat, but you can't help a person to do the brave thing."

"That's witty," Longman said sourly. "But I didn't happen to be joking."

"When we want to vote, Mabel, the men say we have no sense of humor. But now he accuses me of joking—and apparently," she said after a pause,—"he thinks Yetta doesn't know just how we feel."

The subject of their conversation had not lain down, she had curled up in a big chair drawn up before the window, looking out across the Hudson to the setting sun over the Palisades. She was trying desperately to understand the fable of the fox and the grapes after it is turned inside out. The enticing bunch was in easy reach. Were the grapes really sour? It was nearly an hour before they called her, but she had not yet begun to think out what she should say at Carnegie Hall.

There is something grotesque about most large public meetings. Very rarely a speaker gets the feeling, at his first glance over the upturned faces, that there is some cohesion in the assembly, some unity. He realizes that they have come together from their various walks of life, their factories and counting-houses, because of some dominant idea. It is then his easy task, if he is anything of an orator, to catch the keynote of the assembly and carry his hearers where he will.

It was not such an audience which gathered that night at Carnegie Hall. After Walter had given a quick glance from the door of the dressing-room over the mass on the floor, the circle of boxes, and the packed tiers of balconies, he turned to Mabel.

"The people in the boxes," he said, "have come to stare at Yetta, and the rest to stare at them."

"Don't tell her that, for goodness' sake," Mabel said.

But Yetta saw it herself. For the first time she had a sort of stage-fright as she peeked out at them. The people in the boxes irritated her. She had talked to that kind of women before, and they had only given a few dollars. She wondered how many of them had been to Bryn Mawr.

Mabel called Yetta from the doorway to introduce the Rev. Dunham Denning, the rector of Mrs. Van Cleave's church, who was to act as chairman. And then she was presented to an honorable gentleman named Crossman, who had once been a cabinet member and had gray hair, and a wart on his nose. These two elderly gentlemen embarrassed Yetta very much by their courtly attentions. She did not have the slightest idea what to say to them.

When at last the speakers stepped out on the platform, there was a break of polite hand-clapping from the auditorium and a perfect storm of applause from the back of the stage. Yetta turned in surprise to find that banks of seats had been put up and that they were closely packed with her own vest-makers. She had not seen them from the door of the dressing-room. She stopped stock-still with tears in her eyes. Mabel had to pull her sleeve to get her to come forward and acknowledge the greeting of the main audience.

But the noise behind her had shaken Yetta out of the lassitude which the sight of the well-dressed, complacent people of the boxes had given her. She must do her best. She felt herself very small and the thing she wanted to say very big. She pulled her chair close to Mabel's and slipped her hand into that of her friend.

The Rev. Dunham Denning in a very scholarly way reminded the audience of several things which the Christ had said about the neighbors and which he—the reverend gentleman—feared were too often forgot. He introduced the Honorable Mr. Crossman, who was known to all for his distinguished services in the nation's business, his justly famed philanthropies, and his active work in the Civic Federation, which was striving so efficiently to soften the bitterness of the industrial struggle. Mr. Crossman had very little to say, and said it in thundering periods. It took him nearly an hour.

Then it was Mabel's turn. She spoke, as was her wont, in an unimpassioned, businesslike way. She outlined the work of the organization which she represented and spoke of the vest-makers' strike as an example of what the league could do if it had sufficient means.

When she sat down, the chairman began to cast the flowers of his eloquence at Yetta's feet.

"If I may use such an expression," he said, "while Miss Train has been the brains of this strike, which we have gathered here to approve, the next speaker has been its very soul. My own acquaintance with her is of the slightest. But it has been sufficient to convince me past any doubt that the charge on which she was sent to the workhouse was an infamous libel. Who can look at her sweet face and believe her capable of vulgar assault? But you are to have the opportunity to judge for yourself. She will tell us of this victory to which she has so glowingly contributed, and it is my hope, as I am sure it is that of this vast assembly, that she will tell us about her own experiences.—Ladies and Gentlemen, I present Miss Yetta Rayefsky."

Yetta squeezed Mabel's hand and, getting up, walked down to the edge of the platform. She wanted to get near them so they could hear her.

The laughter and the conversation in the boxes stopped for a formal round of applause. But as they clapped their hands and stared at the curiosity, something about her fragile beauty made them clap more heartily. At close range, Yetta looked abundantly healthy. But far away, standing alone on the great platform, she seemed frail and exotic. The two-dollar seats took their cue from the boxes and made as much noise as they could. The gallery and the mass of vest-makers behind her cheered and howled and stamped their feet without thought of the proprieties. And Yetta stood there alone, the blood mounting to her cheeks, looking more and more like an orchid, and waited for the storm to pass.

"I'm not going to talk about this strike," she said when she could make herself heard. "It's over. I want to tell you about the next one—and the next. I wish very much I could make you understand about the strikes that are coming.

"But first I ought to say a few words to you for my union. We're very much obliged to all who have helped us. We couldn't have won without money, and we're thankful to everybody that gave us a dime or a penny.

"It's a wonderful victory for us girls and women. We're very glad. For more than a month we've been out on strike, and now we can go back to the sweat-shop. Because we've been hungry for a month—some of us have got children and it was worse to have them hungry,—because a lot of us have been beaten up by the cops and more than twenty of us have gone to jail, we can go back to the machines now and the bosses can't make us work no more than fifty-six hours a week. That's not much more than nine hours a day, if we have one day off. And the bosses have promised us a little more pay and more air to breathe, and when we've wore ourselves out working for them, they won't throw us out to starve so long as they can find any odd jobs for us to do. We've had to fight hard for this victory, and we're proud we won, and we're thankful to all you who helped us. But better than the shorter hours and everything else is our union. We've got that now, and that's the most important. We won't never be quite so much slaves again like we was before.

"But we've won this strike now, so we've all got to think about the next one. I don't know what trade it will be in. Perhaps you never heard of the paper-box makers, or the artificial-flower makers, or the tassel makers. There's men with families in those trades that never earned as much as I did making vests. And the cigar makers—they're bad too. And if you seen the places where they bake bread, you wouldn't never eat it. It don't matter which way you look, the people that work ain't none of them getting a square deal. They ain't getting a square deal from the bosses. They ain't getting a square deal from the landlords. And the storekeepers sell them rotten things for food. There's going to be strikes right along, till everybody gets a square deal.

"Perhaps there's some of you never thought much about strikes till now. Well. There's been strikes all the time. I don't believe there's ever been a year when there wasn't dozens here in New York. When we began, the skirt-finishers was out. They lost their strike. They went hungry just the way we did, but nobody helped them. And they're worse now than ever. There ain't no difference between one strike and another. Perhaps they are striking for more pay or recognition or closed shops. But the next strike'll be just like ours. It'll be people fighting so they won't be so much slaves like they was before.

"The Chairman said perhaps I'd tell you about my experience. There ain't nothing to tell except everybody has been awful kind to me. It's fine to have people so kind to me. But I'd rather if they'd try to understand what this strike business means to all of us workers—this strike we've won and the ones that are coming. If I tell you how kind one woman wants to be to me, perhaps you'll understand. You see, it would be fine for me, but it wouldn't help the others any.

"Well. I come out of the workhouse to-day, and they tell me this lady wants to give me money to study, she wants to have me go to college like I was a rich girl. It's very kind. I want to study. I ain't been to school none since I was fifteen. I guess I can't even talk English very good. I'd like to go to college. And I used to see pictures in the papers of beautiful rich women, and of course it would be fine to have clothes like them. But being in a strike, seeing all the people suffer, seeing all the cruelty—it makes things look different.

"The Chairman told you something out of the Christian Bible. Well, we Jews have got a story too—perhaps it's in your Bible—about Moses and his people in Egypt. He'd been brought up by a rich Egyptian lady—a princess—just like he was her son. But as long as he tried to be an Egyptian he wasn't no good. And God spoke to him one day out of a bush on fire. I don't remember just the words of the story, but God said: 'Moses, you're a Jew. You ain't got no business with the Egyptians. Take off those fine clothes and go back to your own people and help them escape from bondage.' Well. Of course, I ain't like Moses, and God has never talked to me. But it seems to me sort of as if—during this strike—I'd seen a Blazing Bush. Anyhow I've seen my people in bondage. And I don't want to go to college and be a lady. I guess the kind princess couldn't understand why Moses wanted to be a poor Jew instead of a rich Egyptian. But if you can understand, if you can understand why I'm going to stay with my own people, you'll understand all I've been trying to say.

"We're a people in bondage. There's lots of people who's kind to us. I guess the princess wasn't the only Egyptian lady that was kind to the Jews. But kindness ain't what people want who are in bondage. Kindness won't never make us free. And God don't send any more prophets nowadays. We've got to escape all by ourselves. And when you read in the papers that there's a strike—it don't matter whether it's street-car conductors or lace-makers, whether it's Eyetalians or Polacks or Jews or Americans, whether it's here or in Chicago—it's my People—the People in Bondage who are starting out for the Promised Land."

She stopped a moment, and a strange look came over her face—a look of communication with some distant spirit. When she spoke again, her words were unintelligible to most of the audience. Some of the Jewish vest-makers understood. And the Rev. Dunham Denning, who was a famous scholar, understood. But even those who did not were held spellbound by the swinging sonorous cadence. She stopped abruptly.

"It's Hebrew," she explained. "It's what my father taught me when I was a little girl. It's about the Promised Land—I can't say it in good English—I—"

"Unless I've forgotten my Hebrew," the Reverend Chairman said, stepping forward, "Miss Rayefsky has been repeating God's words to Moses as recorded in the third chapter of Exodus. I think it's the seventh verse:—

"'And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their sorrows;

"'And I am come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land unto a good land and a large, unto a land flowing with milk and honey.'"

"Yes. That's it," Yetta said. "Well, that's what strikes mean. We're fighting for the old promises."

"Pretty little thing, isn't she?" a blonde lady in Mrs. Van Cleave's box asked her neighbor.

"Not my style," he replied. "Even if you had no other charms, if you were humpbacked and cross-eyed, that hair of yours would do the trick with me. Haven't you a free afternoon next week, so we could get married?"

"I didn't know old Denning was so snappy with his Hebrew," another broke in.

"Which reminds me of a story—"

"Is it fit to listen to?" the blonde lady asked.

"Yes—of course. It's about a Welsh minister—"

But the lady had turned away discouraged, to the boredom of the man who really wanted to marry her.

But perhaps in that crowded auditorium there may have been some who had understood what Yetta had been talking about.

Later in the evening, when she was standing with Longman on the deserted stage, waiting for Mabel, who—to use Eleanor's expression—was "sweeping up," he asked her what she was doing the next day.

"I want you to have dinner with me," he said. "Mabel and Isadore Braun are coming. And if it isn't asking too much, I wish you could give me some of the afternoon before they come. I'd like to talk over a lot of things with you. You know I'm sailing the day after to-morrow. It's my last chance to get really acquainted with you."

"Sure. I'd like to come," Yetta replied. "But where are you going?"

She listened in amazement to his plans. She had thought he was going to marry Mabel. When he had left them at the door of the flat, Yetta asked her with naÏve directness if she wasn't engaged to Longman.

"No," Mabel laughed. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Why, all the girls think you are."

"Well, they're all wrong. I'm not."

"And aren't you in love with him?"

"Not a bit. You Little Foolish, can't people be good friends without being in love?"

Yetta went to sleep trying to think out this proposition. She hardly remembered the choice she had made between college and work, nor the strain of the great meeting. It was very hard to believe that Mabel and Walter were not in love.