E

LSA thought she had known what

love was when, at sixteen, she allowed a boy at high school to carry her books for her. She had not known, however. Now at night she would crumple up at the bedside, her head among the covers, and ask herself why she had to suffer so, such ecstasy and despair were hers during these midwinter days.

For she had come from western Maryland five years before, when she was eighteen; come alone to Pittsburg, armed only with a small inheritance from her mother, to go through the university and then the medical college, drawn by the promise of a great career. All had gone well until the money was largely spent; then she had studied stenography in the summer, and early in the fall secured some secretarial night-work with a Mr. Fitch, a social worker in the Children's Society. But she had not worked for this powerful young man more than a few nights when she found herself obsessed by his personality; day by day she felt the growing danger of love for him; and finally, on a stormy evening, the matter had reached a crisis: he had plainly intimated that he wanted a wife who

was

"feminine" and "old-fashioned," and he had plainly intimated that he wished she were that woman.

Three months had passed since then. But each day she relived the event: the narrow office on the seventh floor of the Keystone Building, the rain on the window, the powerful young man dominating her from his revolving-chair as she sat at the desk and took his dictation, the feeling that her career was in the balance, that the many desperate years of training for her work in medicine might be thrown away; for Mr. Fitch was outspoken in his contempt of women doctors, and equally outspoken in his determination to get married. She had saved herself narrowly she had told him that she had her own life to live, and she had resigned her position. She thought herself free.

But now she knew, or thought she knew, what love was. It was a fever and a forgetfulness; it was a beast, sometimes an angel, that lived in her against her will; it was the compression of her whole nature into, as it were, one knife of passion; it was hunger and thirst and restless desire. It was as if she had had a blow over the head so that she had lost one part of her spirit, but only to find a greater part. The intensity with which she lived was a terror and a sharp joy.

And so her work at the medical college languished; her ambition dwindled; and as her money was all gone, her future was but a broken thing in her hands. For five years she had toiled steadily and alone; and now, without warning, she had reached the apparent end.

She was sure of this on a December afternoon as she sat at her typewritingmachine in the hall bedroom at Mrs. Mayhew's. Previously she and her young friend, Enid Wardell, had shared the large front room down stairs, but Enid had since married, and so Elsa had been forced to move. Yes, she thought this afternoon, and might be forced to move farther. Her poverty was unbelievable.

The large room had been warmed by a radiator; the small room had only a little gas-stove set on the floor beside the unsteady table that held the typewriter; and, although the stove flamed and its sooty smell filled the air, Elsa had to wear a woolen sweater to keep warm. Her fingers were stiff, and it was difficult for her to tap the keys.

Though it was only three in the afternoon, the gray smokes of Pittsburg suggested twilight; she was thinking of lighting the gas above her head, for the manuscript she was copying was becoming illegible. This manuscript represented an attempt to make money, the following of a suggestion made by a medical student that, as she had failed to find work-and it was only part-time

work that she could do-she should try earning her living by writing. Why not write some popular medical articleshow to avoid tuberculosis, for instance.

This she had done; and also one on "Massage." The first had already been rejected by a magazine, but it was returned with a note from the editor, recommending "greater condensation," yet expressing his regret that his magazine had already printed too much upon the subject. The second had not yet been heard from; and, with her hopes involved in its adventure, Elsa was attempting to condense the first. But all the joy had gone out of the work.

She kept tapping the keys listlessly. Then she rubbed her fingers together to warm them, and reached for the matchbox. At that moment there was a knock upon the door. She turned, with terrible eagerness.

"Come in," she called. The door opened, and Mrs. May

hew entered.

anguish from her voice. "I'll surely do something soon."

66

"I know you will," said Mrs. Mayhew.

Sure you will. Of course it isn't easy to run a house like this: the rent's high."

Elsa could say nothing; she looked down at the floor, and Mrs. Mayhew withdrew.

Then Elsa opened the envelope, and drew out with the manuscript a printed rejection-slip. Not even a personal letter! She sat down, her head sank over the typewriting-machine, and she wept.

She had not known that she could be so lonely; that she could hunger so for human sympathy, for the warm intimacy of understanding, for the healing of an

THERE WAS A KNOCK UPON THE DOOR

other's touch. She had known loneliness before, much of it; but not the loneliness of bereavement, not the loneliness of desire. She glanced over at the bed, at the foot of which were stacked several of those stupid technical medical books, and all her passion for a great science seemed to die.

"I want to be a woman," she told herself "a plain, common, every-day woman!"

She longed in that moment to rest back on the common sense of the race; to give herself to the seasonal rhythms of the common life; to the strong, fixed, comforting routine of eating, drinking, sleeping, loving, begetting; yes, to those things which are the solid fruits of the millions of years of evolution. And all that was feminine in her desired to be mastered-to be mastered by a man; the strong arm, the creative will, shielding and steering and absorbing her. If Mr. Fitch had opened the door then-she glanced up through tear-wet eyes in her primitive and divine weakness!—he could have commanded, and she would have followed.

It was laughable, really; the sublime adventure of her adolescence, the four desperate years at the university, the one year at the medical college, the unfailing faith that sustained her, the miracles of anatomy, the glowing future coming nearer and nearer, and then the fine career ahead-all of these things trampled, beaten back, and routed at the first onset of human passion, at the first stir and cry of the woman within her! Laughable and ridiculous!

"Tut!" she exclaimed, rising, trying to shake off this terrible mood. "It's because I haven't any one to talk to-and it's because I haven't any money!"

She went to the window. The street was darkening; the lamp - lighter was crossing the gutter; and Elsa, watching the light leap up in the gloom, felt that it was impossible to stay alone in this cold little room any longer. She must go where there was comfort, warmth, light, human faces. She knew: she would go down-town and see Enid-Enid in her tiny house. Enid at least would put her arms about her and kiss her.

She turned back into the shadows, put her little coat over the sweater, pinned

on her hat, and then fled from the house. The bracing air sent her swiftly through the streets: a woman making the great search, the universal search, the search for understanding and love.

Alighting from the car, she turned down a narrow side-street, the little redbrick houses of which stood one below the other on a downward slope. Elsa stopped before one of the little houses, the shade of whose front room was a warm yellow with the gas-light behind it. She went up two steps, rang the bell, and the door opened.

"Why, Elsa!" cried Enid. And at once arms were about her and she was kissed. The tears trickled down her cheeks.

Enid drew her into the hall, babbling as usual. "Why, goodness! Come right into the sitting-room and take off your things. You know, I was going to see you to-morrow. Elsa, what is the matter?" "Can't I cry

Elsa laughed softly. if I want to?"

The soft, yellow-haired, pretty girl stared at her sharply. "You silly thing!" she cried, indignantly. "I know what's the matter. You're killing yourself over that horrid medical work. Now you sit down; I'm going to talk to you.”

Elsa had always felt very mature next to Enid; but now Enid was a married woman, and Elsa was merely a woman. She was shocked, and came sharply to herself. "Well!" she exclaimed. "But be merciful, En!"

They sat down together on a little couch, and Elsa felt the comfort of the room. It had little furniture in it, and that was all new and rather frail, but it was small and bright; and the soft form and yellow hair and glistening blue eyes beside her suffused it all with animation.

"Haven't you a job yet?" asked Enid. "No." Elsa was really beginning to feel that Enid was married, and that their ancient positions were reversed. She was now the child.

Enid lowered her voice and went on: "Elsa, I met him only the other day." She paused, and Elsa thought she felt Enid's eyes upon her. "He asked after you wanted to know where you were and what you were doing. You see, he knows John; and he's going to come here to see us soon. You shouldn't have left him."

Elsa's head seemed heavy with sudden dizziness. "Ah," she thought,

"I mustn't come here any more." "You see," Enid continued, in the infinite wisdom of two months of married life, "I know men now, and Mr. Fitch-but that's John!"

A key had mercifully clicked in the lock of the front door, and Enid leaped up and flew out, and there was a joyous meeting in the hall. Elsa arose unsteadily.

"Elsa is going to stay to supper," said Enid.

five dollars now in all the world; but she was beginning to feel faint and lightheaded with hunger. And more than food, possibly, she needed the warmth and stimulation of resting in a lighted room with people . all about her.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Elsa, swiftly. "I just ran in a m oment; I've promised to get back." They wanted her to stay, but she made her escape to the street.

It was too late to return to Mrs. Mayhew's, and she felt that she could not do without supper, for she had gone without lunch. Economy these days! Supper would come to twenty-five cents: fifteen cents for meat, five for coffee, and VOL. CXXVI.-No. 755.-90

So she found a little place in a basement that, with tiling, mirrors, and electric lights, was warm and neat and sparkling; and, dismally sitting there in a corner alone, she ate of courage and hope; and all the while she thought: "He asked after me! No, I mustn't go to Enid's any more!"

She could almost feel his powerful personality coming nearer and nearer, as if he were searching for her through the streets of the city, as if she might meet him if she left the restaurant. And the thrill of comfort, the awakening of ecstasy, that came from this surmise warmed her more than the hot coffee. Why fight longer? She owed Mrs. Mayhew twelve dol

lars; she had no work; her manuscripts were rejected, her studies becoming mechanical; her whole life had led into this blind alley; and there was no escape. None, save through him! Ah, that was the thrilling element in life!

She paid her quarter, and then climbed the steps into the city's white night avenue. And she became a part of the