For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. The devil is on top, not below. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. In the pause she realized the attention of the others converged upon her, and that the tears were brimming over her eyes.
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