the other doors. She would knock because she must. The custom of the
age, necessity, circumstances, forced her to knock at one of those
doors that, in the life of these modern days, opens to women who seek
admittance alone.

I cannot tell just what the circumstances of the woman's life were nor
why it was necessary. Nor does it in the least matter that I cannot
tell. The necessity, the circumstances, have nothing to do with my
story save this: that, whatever they were, I am quite sure they ought
not to have been. I am quite sure that _any_ circumstance, or
necessity, or custom, that forces a woman who knows herself to be a
woman to seek admittance at any one of those doors through which she
must enter alone is not right. This it is that belongs to my story:
the woman did not wish to enter the life that lies on the other side
of those doors through which she must go alone.

Alone in her room that night, with the shades drawn close and the only
light the light of the dancing fire, this woman who, for the first
time, knew herself to be a woman, did not dream of a life on the other
side of those doors at which she must ask admittance. She dreamed of a
future beyond the old, old, door that has stood open wide since the
beginning.

And it was no shame to her that she so dreamed. It was no shame that
she called before her, one by one, those who had asked her to cross
with them the threshold and those who might still ask her. It was no
shame that, while her heart said always, "no," she still
waited--waited for one whom she knew not but only knew that she would
know him when he came. And it was no shame to her that, even while
this was so, she saw herself in the years to come a wife and mother.