But here suddenly seemed a solution of the difficulty; here was a new interest for Mary, a safe channel in which her emotions could run. A woman could not serve on a miners’ committee, but she would be a good adviser, and her sharp tongue would be a weapon to drive others into line. Being aflame with this enterprise, Hal became impersonal, man-fashion--and so fell into another sentimental trap! He did not stop to think that Mary’s interest in the check-weighman movement might be conditioned in part by a desire to see more of him; still less did it occur to him that he might be glad for a pretext to see Mary. No, he was picturing her in a new role, an activity more inspiriting than cooking and nursing. His “poetry-book” imagination took fire; he gave her a hope and a purpose, a pathway with a goal at the end. Had there not been women leaders in every great proletarian movement? He went to call on her, and met her at the door of her cabin. “’Tis a cheerin’ sight to see ye, Joe Smith!” she said. And she looked him in the eye and smiled. “The same to you, Mary Burke!” he answered. She was game, he saw; she was going to be a “good sport.” But he noticed that she was paler than when he had seen her last. Could it be that these gorgeous Irish complexions ever faded? He thought that she was thinner too; the old blue calico seemed less tight upon her. Hal plunged into his theme. “Mary, I had a vision of you to-day!” “Of me, lad? What’s that?” He laughed. “I saw you with a glory in your face, and your hair shining like a crown of gold. You were mounted on a snow-white horse, and wore a robe of white, soft and lustrous--like Joan of Arc, or a leader in a suffrage parade. You were riding at the head of a host--I’ve still got the music in my ears, Mary!” “Go on with ye, lad--what’s all this about?” “Come in and I’ll tell you,” he said. So they went into the bare kitchen, and sat in bare wooden chairs--Mary folding her hands in her lap like a child who has been promised a fairy-story. “Now hurry,” said she. “I want to know about this new dress ye’re givin’ me. Are ye tired of me old calico?” He joined in her smile. “This is a dress you will weave for yourself, Mary, out of the finest threads of your own nature--out of courage and devotion and self-sacrifice.” “Sure, ’tis the poetry-book again! But what is it ye’re really meanin’?” He looked about him. “Is anybody here?” “Nobody.” But instinctively he lowered his voice as he told his story. There was an organiser of the “big union” in the camp, and he was going to rouse the slaves to protest. The laughter went out of Mary’s face. “Oh! It’s that!” she said, in a flat tone. The vision of the snow-white horse and the soft and lustrous robe was gone. “Ye can never do anything of that sort here!” “Why not?” “’Tis the men in this place. Don’t ye remember what I told ye at Mr. Rafferty’s? They’re cowards!”