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“Well, it don’t. What do the women do out here?”

“They work like the men, only more so.”

“Do they have any new things?”

“Not very often, I’m afraid.”

She sighed. After a pause, she said:

“You were raised on a farm?”

“Yes. In Minnesota.”

“Did you do work like that?” She pointed at a thrashing-machine in the field.

“Yes, I ploughed and sowed and reaped and mowed. I wasn’t on the farm for my health.”

“You’re very strong, aren’t you?” she asked, admiringly.

“In a slab-sided kind of a way–yes.”

Her eyes grew abstracted.

“I like strong men. Ollie was a little man, not any taller than I am, but when he was drunk he was what men call a–a holy terror. He struck me with the water-pitcher once–that was just before baby was born. I wish he’d killed me.” She ended in a sudden reaction to hopeless bitterness. “It would have saved me all these months of life in this terrible country.”

“It might have saved you from more than you think,” he said, quietly, tenderly.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been brought up against women and men who have defiled you. They’ve made your future uncertain.”

“Do you think it’s so bad as that? Tell me!” she insisted, seeing his hesitation.

“You’re on the road to hell!” he said, in a voice that was very low, but it reached her. It was full of pain and grave reprimand and gentleness. “You’ve been poisoned. You’re in need of a good man’s help. You need the companionship of good, earnest women instead of painted harlots.”

Her voice shook painfully as she replied:

“You don’t think I’m all bad?”

“You’re not bad at all–you’re simply reckless. You are not to blame. It depends upon yourself now, though, whether you keep a true woman or go to hell with Mrs. Shellberg.”

The conductor eyed them, as he passed, with an unpleasant light in his eyes, and the drummers a few seats ahead turned to look at them. The tip had passed along from lip to lip. They were like wild beasts roused by the presence of prey. Their eyes gleamed with relentless lust. They eyed the little creature with ravening eyes. Her helplessness was their opportunity.

Allen, sitting there, entered into the terror and the tragedy of the girl’s life. He imagined her reckless, prodigal girlhood; the coarse, rich father; the marriage, when a thoughtless girl, with a drunken, dissolute boy; the quarrels, brutal beatings; the haste to secure a divorce; the contamination of the crowded hotels in Heron Lake, where this slender young girl–naturally pure, alert, quick of impulse–was like a lamb among lustful wolves. His heart ached for her.

The deep, slow voice of the lawyer sounded on. His eyes, turned toward her, had no equivocal look. He was a brother speaking to a younger sister. The tears fell down her cheeks, upon her folded hands. Her widely opened eyes seemed to look out into a night of storms.

“Oh, what shall I do?” she moaned. “I wish I was dead–and baby, too!”

“Live for the baby–let him help you out.”

“Oh, he can’t! I don’t care enough for him. I wish I was like other mothers, but I’m not. I can’t shut myself up with a baby. I’m too young.”

He saw that. She was seeking the love of a man, not the care of a child. She had the wifely passion, but not the mother’s love. He was silent; the case baffled him.

“Oh, I wish you could help me! I wish I had you to help me all the time! I do! I don’t care what you think–I do! I do!”

“Our home is open to you and baby, too,” he said, slowly. “My wife knows about you, and–“

“Who told her–did you?” she flashed out again, angrily, jealously.

“Yes. My wife is my other self,” he replied, quietly.

She stared at him, breathing heavily, then looked out of the window again. At last she turned to him. She seemed to refer to his invitation.

“Oh, this terrible land! Oh, I couldn’t stay here! I’d go insane. Perhaps I’m going insane, anyway. Don’t you think so?”