Saxon went about her housework greatly troubled. She no longer herself to the making of pretties. The materials cost money, and she did not dare. Bert's thrust had sunk home. It remained in her quivering consciousness like a of steel that ever turned and . She and Billy were responsible for this coming young life. Could they be sure, after all, that they could adequately feed and clothe it and prepare it for its way in the world? Where was the guaranty? She remembered, dimly, the of hard times in the past, and the plaints of fathers and mothers in those days returned to her with a new significance. Almost could she understand Sarah's complaining.  
Hard times were already in the neighborhood, where lived the families of the shopmen who had gone out on strike. Among the small storekeepers, Saxon, in the course of the daily , could sense the air of despondency. Light and seemed to have vanished. Gloom everywhere. The mothers of the children that played in the streets showed the gloom plainly in their faces. When they gossiped in the evenings, over front gates and on door stoops, their voices were and less of laughter rang out.
 
Mary Donahue, who had taken three from the milkman, now took one . There were no more family trips to the moving picture shows. Scrap-meat was harder to get from the butcher. Nora Delaney, in the third house, no longer bought fresh fish for Friday. Salted codfish, not of the best quality, was now on her table. The sturdy children that ran out upon the street between meals with huge slices of bread and butter and sugar now came out with no sugar and with thinner slices spread more thinly with butter. The very custom was dying out, and some children already had desisted from piecing between meals.
 
Everywhere was manifest a pinching and scraping, a tightning and shortening down of . And everywhere was more . Women became angered with one another, and with the children, more quickly than of yore; and Saxon knew that Bert and Mary .
 
“If she'd only realize I've got troubles of my own,” Bert complained to Saxon.
 
She looked at him closely, and felt fear for him in a vague, way. His black eyes seemed to burn with a continuous madness. The brown face was leaner, the skin tightly across the cheekbones. A slight twist had come to the mouth, which seemed frozen into bitterness. The very carriage of his body and the way he wore his hat advertised a recklessness more intense than had been his in the past.
 
Sometimes, in the long afternoons, sitting by the window with idle hands, she caught herself reconstructing in her vision that folk-migration of her people across the plains and mountains and deserts to the sunset land by the Western sea. And often she found herself dreaming of the arcadian days of her people, when they had not lived in cities nor been with unions and employers' associations. She would remember the old people's tales of self-sufficingness, when they shot or raised their own meat, grew their own vegetables, were their own blacksmiths and carpenters, made their own shoes—yes, and the cloth of the clothes they wore. And something of the wistfulness in Tom's face she could see as she it when he talked of his dream of taking up government land.
 
A farmer's life must be fine, she thought. Why was it that people had to live in cities? Why had times changed? If there had been enough in the old days, why was there not enough now? Why was it necessary for men to quarrel and jangle, and strike and fight, all about the matter of getting work? Why wasn't there work for all?—Only that morning, and she with the recollection, she had seen two scabs, on their way to work, beaten up by the strikers, by men she knew by sight, and some by name, who lived in the neighhorhood. It had happened directly across the street. It had been cruel, terrible—a dozen men on two. The children had begun it by throwing rocks at the scabs and cursing them in ways children should not know. Policemen had run upon the scene with drawn revolvers, and the strikers had retreated into the houses and through the narrow between the houses. One of the scabs, unconscious, had been carried away in an ambulance; the other, assisted by special railroad police, had been taken away to the shops. At him, Mary Donahue, on her front stoop, her child in her arms, had such abuse that it had brought the blush of shame to Saxon's cheeks. On the stoop of the house on the other side, Saxon had Mercedes, in the height of the beating up, looking on with a queer smile. She had seemed very eager to witness, her and like the beat of pulses as she watched. It had struck Saxon at the time that the old woman was quite unalarmed and only curious to see.
 
To Mercedes, who was so wise in love, Saxon went for explanation of what was the matter with the world. But the old woman's wisdom in affairs industrial and economic was and unpalatable.
 
“La la, my dear, it is so simple. Most men are born stupid. They are the slaves. A few are born clever. They are the masters. God made men so, I suppose.”
 
“Then how about God and that terrible beating across the street this morning?”
 
“I'm afraid he was not interested,” Mercedes smiled. “I doubt he even knows that it happened.”
 
“I was frightened to death,” Saxon declared. “I was made sick by it. And yet you—I saw you—you looked on as cool as you please, as if it was a show.”
 
“It was a show, my dear.”
 
“Oh, how could you?”
 
“La la, I have seen men killed. It is nothing strange. All men die. The stupid ones die like oxen, they know not why. It is quite funny to see. They strike each other with fists and clubs, and break each other's heads. It is gross. They are like a lot of animals. They are like dogs over bones. Jobs are bones, you know. Now, if they fought for women, or ideas, or bars of gold, or diamonds, it would be splendid. But no; they are only hungry, and fight over for their stomach.”
 
“Oh, if I could only understand!” Saxon murmured, her hands tightly clasped in of incomprehension and vital need to know.
 
“There is nothing to understand. It is clear as print. There have always been the stupid and the clever, the slave and the master, the peasant and the prince. There always will be.”
 
“But why?”
 
“Why is a peasant a peasant, my dear? Because he is a peasant. Why is a a flea?”
 
Saxon tossed her head fretfully.
 
“Oh, but my dear, I have answered. The philosophies of the world can give no better answer. Why do you like your man for a husband rather than any other man? Because you like him that way, that is all. Why do you like? Because you like. Why does fire burn and frost bite? Why are there clever men and stupid men? masters and slaves? employers and workingmen? Why is black black? Answer that and you answer everything.”
 
“But it is not right that men should go hungry and without work when they want to work if only they can get a square deal,” Saxon protested.
 
“Oh, but it is right, just as it is right that stone won't burn like wood, that sea sand isn't sugar, that thorns , that water is wet, that smoke rises, that things fall down and not up.”
 
But such of reality made no impression on Saxon. , she could not comprehend. It seemed like so much nonsense.
 
“Then we have no liberty and independence,” she cried . “One man is not as good as another. My child has not the right to live that a rich mother's child has.”
 
“Certainly not,” Mercedes answered.
 
“Yet all my people fought for these things,” Saxon urged, remembering her school history and the sword of her father.
 
“Democracy—the dream of the stupid peoples. Oh, la la, my dear, democracy is a lie, an to keep the work content, just as religion used to keep them content. When they in their and , they were persuaded to keep on in their ............