There was the flare of a sea gull to Zoe--no containing her. Little snatches of song bubbled. She was a freshet of delight. "Look at that tray of violets, Lilly! I must have a bunch." "Zoe, don't lean over so far!" "See the yellow satin in that shop window, Lilly! I'd love to wind it round me. It's like sun!" "See those jams of women in white, Zoe, waiting to form into line!" "I'd love to march!" "Why?" "Oh, I don't know, there--there's something sort of onward about it." "Exactly! Onward! Forward! March!" With a precocity that never ceased to amuse and delight Lilly, Zoe, while only half understanding the content of an occasion, could somehow imbibe its essence. She leaned now over the rail of the omnibus, the cross-town streets, as they jogged past, already colloid masses of women waiting to fall into line. "Isn't it queer, Lilly, that after all these centuries and centuries women are just beginning to--what did that woman on the program call it down at Cooper Union hall the other night--function in the government? Why has it taken them so long to ask for their half in the say-so of things?" "Any great movement, Zoe, must have very slow beginnings. Think for what ages man lived without Christianity!" "Yes; but look how long it has been here." "Reckoning in geology, Zoe, and compared with the age of mountains and oceans, two thousand years isn't long." "I think it is." "You darling!" They alighted at the Washington Arch, jamming their way into the tight battalion of spectators already lining both sides of lower Fifth Avenue. The head of the parade was already forming, a slim young leader holding in her white mount with difficulty. "Lilly, she looks like our picture of Jeanne d'Arc when she sees the vision!" "She is heeding a vision, Zoe--of to-morrow." "I feel so--so thrilled, Lilly. Do you?" "Yes," said Lilly, for some reason breathing hard. "Oh, I do!" There was a break of music, and all about them women darting into line, sudden banners floating out, and the white horse prancing in the archway, for all the world as if spun at a tangent off the narrative frieze of the arch. At the Eighth Street curb, where they stood, five hundred women, with standards lifted, stiffened suddenly into formation, a deputy from their ranks, a buyer, by the way, for the largest cloak-and-suit house in the world, calling short, quick orders and distributing American flags. The air was rent with silk and brass; a simoom of rapture raced over Zoe. She danced on the balls of her feet. It was then that a deputy, with a face that recalled newspaper reproductions of it, spied her. "Here, little girl! You! Oh, lovely! Could you manage this banner, dear, and lead this section? Miss, is this lovely child your sister? Do let her lead!" "She's my daughter." "Come; you may fall in line right behind her. Do you mind if I unpin your sister's curls? Oh, she's lovely--" "I said she's my _daughter!_" "Here, right in front, dear--my--oh, what a find!"