The afternoon passed, as such afternoons must, and the woman did her
work. What mattered the work that was being wrought in the soul of her
womanhood--the work committed to her hands--the work that refused to
recognize her womanhood--_that_ work was done--and that is all
that seems to matter. And, when her day's work was done, the woman
boarded a car for her home.

It was an hour when many hundreds of toilers were going from their
labor. So many hundreds there were that the cars could scarcely hold
them and there were seats for only a few. Among those hundreds there
were many who were proud of their knowledge of life. There were not
many who knew the value of Ignorance. The woman who knew that she was
a woman was crowded in a car where there was scarcely room for her to
stand. She felt the rude touch of strangers--felt the bodies of
strange men forced against her body--felt their limbs crushed against
her limbs--felt their breath in her face--felt and trembled in
frightened shame. In that car, crowded close against the woman, there
were men whose knowledge of life was very great. By going to the
lowest depths of the city's shame, where the foulest dregs of humanity
settle, they had acquired that knowledge.

At first the woman had dreaded those evening trips from work in the
crowded cars. But it was an everyday experience and she was becoming
accustomed to it. She was learning not to mind. That is the horror of
it--_she was learning not to mind._

But this night it was different. The heart of her womanhood shrank
within her trembling and afraid--cried out within her in protest at
the outrage. In the fetid atmosphere of the crowded car; in the rough