Her body was utterly prone on the bed--but her spirit had fallen even lower. Why had she let Isadore divert her with the call to work? What did work matter, if she had lost Walter? Why had she not gone to him that first morning? He had waited for some word from her. She had let her stupid pride stand in her way. What was her pride worth to her? If she had gone to his room, she might have held something of him. She had demanded all and had lost everything. As the minutes grew into hours, Yetta sank deeper and deeper into the Slough of Despond. She lost desire to struggle out. But gradually the wild turmoil of grief wore away, and she fell into a heavy sleep. When she awoke, she heard Sadie moving about in the kitchen. The pride which she had cursed a few hours before came back to her. She did not want Sadie to see her defeat. There is a vast difference between the abstract proposition, "Is life worth living?" and the concrete question, "Shall I let Tom, Dick, or Mary see tears in my eyes!" She had wanted to die, and now she did not want to be ashamed. So the will came to Yetta to hold her head high. It was six o'clock when she got up and washed her face. Sadie was preparing supper. She wanted to go out and help. But instead she sat down drearily. She did not have the courage to face her room-mate. The willing of a deed does not guarantee the power of execution. She was dry-eyed now; the tears were spent, but she was utterly weak. She leaned a little sideways and, resting her cheek against the cool surface of her bureau, looked--unseeing--out of her window at the array of milk bottles on the window ledge across the airshaft. Where could she find help? It was the first time in her life she had wanted such assistance. Often she had needed advice, aid in thinking things out. But now she needed help in the elemental job of living. Often she had been at a loss as to what she ought to do, but now she knew. Yet instead of going out to help Sadie, she sat there--weak. If she had been an Italian, she might have crept out to the Confessional, whispered her troubles into a kind Padre's ear, and so found comfort and strength. But the solace of religion was unknown to her. In these latter active years, even the memory of her father had faded. She could no longer shut her eyes and talk things over with him. But without some external aid, she knew she could not go forward. She--the individual--was defeated. Like the little band of besieged in Lucknow there was nothing more that she could do. The ammunition was spent. In what direction should she turn in the hope of hearing the pipes of the rescuers? In those few desolate moments she saw her situation clearly. She did not want to die. But unless relief came quickly the black waves of death which were beleaguering her spirit would close over her. Never as long as she might live could she ever be proud of her strength again. What solid, basic thing was there for her to lean against?