will still hear in the silence the sound of children's voices, will
still dream of the lover's kiss that is to open up new life to her.
She is not quite so unsexed as you may think, my dear womanly madame.
A male friend of mine was telling me of a catastrophe that once
occurred at a station in the East Indies.

[No time to think of Husbands.]

A fire broke out at night, and everybody was in terror lest it should
reach the magazine. The women and children were being hurried to the
ships, and two ladies were hastening past my friend. One of them
paused, and, clasping her hands, demanded of him if he knew what had
become of her husband. Her companion was indignant.

"For goodness' sake, don't dawdle, Maria," she cried; "this is no
time to think of husbands."

There is no reason to fear that the working woman will ever cease to
think of husbands. Maybe, as I have said, she will demand a better
article than the mere husband-hunter has been able to stand out for.
Maybe she herself will have something more to give; maybe she will
bring to him broader sympathies, higher ideals. The woman who has
herself been down among the people, who has faced life in the open,
will know that the home is but one cell of the vast hive.

We shall, perhaps, hear less of the woman who "has her own home and
children to think of--really takes no interest in these matters"--
these matters of right and wrong, these matters that spell the
happiness or misery of millions.