face and half concealing, half revealing her charming ears in
waves of changeable auburn. After a lingering--and pardonably
pleased--look at herself in a long mirror, she descended, mounted
and rode slowly down toward town.

The old Galland homestead was at the western end of town--in a
quarter that had become almost poor. But it was so dignified and
its grounds were so extensive that it suggested a manor house
with the humble homes of the lord's dependents clustering about
it for shelter. To reach it Jane had to ride through two filthy
streets lined with factories. As she rode she glanced at the
windows, where could be seen in dusty air girls and boys busy at
furiously driven machines-- machines that compelled their human
slaves to strain every nerve in the monotonous task of keeping
them occupied. Many of the girls and boys paused long enough for
a glance at the figure of the man-clad girl on the big horse.

Jane, happy in the pleasant sunshine, in her beauty and health
and fine raiment and secure and luxurious position in the world,
gave a thought of pity to these imprisoned young people. ``How
lucky I am,'' she thought, ``not to have been born like that. Of
course, we all have our falls now and then. But while they
always strike on the hard ground, I've got a feather bed to fall
on.''

When she reached Martha's and was ushered into the cool upstairs
sitting room, in somehow ghastly contrast to the hot rooms where
the young working people sweated and strained, the subject
persisted in its hold on her thoughts. There was Martha, in
comfortable, corsetless expansiveness--an ideal illustration of