She heard the sounds of the city over the buildings, over into the stillness of Harrow Street, like the far tread and clatter of a pageant. Mother Nature was actually perceptible in this soft air, and something that Pidge answered to as never before in New York. Her hands stretched out to touch the casings of the window; the old wood gave her an additional warmth. It belonged to this house of Miss Claes, this house of the mystery of kindness. She was free at this moment of the fear of accepting too much, having come up to breathe, at least, out of the ruck of fighting everything and everybody. She had been utterly graceless and narrow in her acceptances, fighting against favors, when she knew all the time that to receive is the other part of giving. A shiver passed over her, nevertheless, as she remembered the subtle mendicancy that she had known in her father’s house, the calm acceptance of gifts and favors from others in the belief that one was evolved enough to give the ineffable in exchange for materials. No wonder she had run from that. This of Miss Claes’ was a house with a heart. This was her house. She could breathe in it now, at least, for a little. The numbness and dumbness of the factory had fallen away. The softness stole over her toward Fanny Gallup and the other girls who must still stay at the bench. She would never forget. She had earned an understanding of them, and had been released; _released_ was the word. But something would carry her back to them one day, something born in that slow madness of monotony. She crossed the room and opened the door into the hall. Supper smells came up to her, the murmur of voices behind the shut doors. The prima donna person was singing, not practicing this time, but singing.... “One comes up through great tribulation to learn to sing,” Miss Claes had once said, “and others share it.” The warmth stole into her from the halls. Everybody was hungry to-night, the spring hunger, and everybody celebrated, as a festival. April seemed breathing in the halls, too. April was breathing in herself; that was why she was awake to this outer delight. If she could only keep it. It would always be in externals, if she could only keep this springtime alive within. She laughed a little bitterly. Of course, she was elated because the factor had dropped away, because the new position had opened, because the check had come (though she felt something queer about that), because Richard Cobden and Miss Claes were fashioned of unswerving kindnesses, which she suddenly realized as never before. “It’s money and place, and I’m ‘falling for’ it, venturing to be pleased with myself----” She laughed again. “But, oh, it is so cheerful, so restful to feel New York like this, just for to-night!” XI THE BABY CARRIAGE