"Oh, yes, you do. Will she have the--what do the long distance runners call it?--'wind,' 'staying power,' to keep her faith in revolt? In Socialism? It's a long race, this life of ours, and an obstacle race every foot--will she last?"... In a moment she went on. "Oh, I hope she will. It's beautiful! I hope she won't be fooled into something else. Nothing on earth is worth so much as faith--Why don't you say something?" "I'm--" "Oh, you're surprised to hear me talk like this. But don't be mean and rub it in, even if I have sold out. Once upon a time--" she broke off suddenly and then began again. "Do you really suppose any one ever lived who has not had some youth and faith? I was a girl once. Time was when there weren't any wrinkles on my soul. Why! Once upon a time, I was going to write the Great American Novel! Sometimes I try to comfort myself by saying that newspaper work was too hard for a woman. I ought to make a pilgrimage somewhere--on my knees--to thank the gods I wasn't born a vest-maker. I did not have the nerve--the staying power. I sold out. "And when this dinky little boat gets to the dock, I'll ask you to get into my car and come up to Sherry's for tea. It will save me from going to that great Social Institution, that bulwark of America's greatness--The Home. I'd invite you to it, only it would seem like an insult. There's a big room looking out on the Drive--full of Gothic furniture; some of it was made in the Middle Ages and some was made in Milwaukee. Bert has a fad for Gothic. Home's a sort of Musée du Cluny. This isn't my day, but some women are sure to drop in. Some in skirts and some in trousers, and they'll talk nonsense and worse. And once upon a time I was a real woman, and worked with real men and had thoughts. It's so long ago I almost forgot about it till this little vest-maker came along, with her big eyes and her faith." The boat bumped against the pier. "Don't be scared at my melodramatics," she said. "Come up to Sherry's and I'll tell you the latest scandal. Some of it is quite untellable. We'll forget the little Jewess with her disturbing eyes. Curses on them! You know, looking into them makes me understand why they crucified Christ at such an early age.--Will you come?" "Can we stop on the way and get those books for Yetta?" Late that night Longman took out one of his printed sheets of foolscap and added Mrs. Karner's credo to his collection. It was the first of his questionnaires he had filled out since he had begun preparations for the expedition to Assyria. The next morning the warden handed Yetta a bundle of books. On the fly-leaf of the smallest one--Thoreau's _Essays_--Longman had written: "Thoreau lived before Socialism commenced. But I don't think any of the modern writers have bettered 'On the Duty of Civic Disobedience.'" In the six days which were left of her sentence, Yetta had time to read and reread all the books Walter had sent her, and to think her way to a surer footing in Life.