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66 Mr. Boylenot worth while to stand for two hours bya lamp-post?After a while far down the highwaylifted intermittent music; there came therise and fall of marching figures, figuresin white, a slow-flowing white river withbanners. After the band a troop of ridersled the parade, and among these, Dickknew, rode the girl. There she was. Asluck would have it she was on the nearedge of the line; she was about to passwithin six feet. Young Phoebus Apollo,unconscious of his height and his beauty,oblivious to smiling strangers who regardedhim, pressed forward. She wascoming; she was here; she was past.Sitting her horse squarely, looking neitherto right nor left, gazing out forward as ifinto a future, she rode past and did notsee him. A pang of disappointment, andthen the boy realized that this was as itshould be. Just so rapt, so concentratedhe would have her. " I like it that way,"he murmured and fell back against hislamp-post.The crowds filled every inch of sidewalkfor miles up and down the greatstreet; the procession swept on. Therewas something in the sight which caughtat the boy's pulse. No aggressive, pseudomasculinemob this, no assemblage offlightiness seeking for sensation. Lineafter line swam forward rhythmically,ordered waves of a sea, rising and fallingwith the lift and tread of marching feet—women's feet. Company after companyof grave, bright faces, looking forwardas the girl's, each with the significanceof no uncertain purpose, they came on.Sections carried banners, and the warmbreeze of the May day fluttered the goldof some of the banners and the white andgreen and purple of others over the whitecladhost; bands came up at intervalsand played triumphantly, and the musicpassed as the first notes of the next bandfloated from the distance. There wasabout it all an atmosphere of sober jubilancy,the assured joy of a multitude ofpeople who were paying a price for anobject. All sorts and conditions of womenpassed. There were ladies of easy carriagewhose plain white gowns were cutby expensive tailors; next such an onemany a time trudged a woman whosecoarse white blouse and skirt had probablybeen washed and ironed by her ownhands for the day. And the two smiledat each other sisterly as they fell intostep together."The colonel's lady and Judy O'GradyAre sisters under the skin."Nothing brings out that fundamentalfact more than suffrage. Next Dick onthe sidewalk stood an elderly woman inpoor clothes whose face was carved bylife into a mask of tragedy. Her bonnet,with a bunch of worn violets, was tiedunder her chin after a fashion which womenof sixty or seventy do not, follow inAmerica. There was an air of Englandabout the woman, and suddenly she spokein unmistakable British tones, so agitatedat the sight of the marching thousandsthat speak she must."To think that I should live to seeit!" she said, and clinched a hand to herheart.Dick smiled down at her; a thicksetman wheeled about. He lifted his hat,noting the poverty and the ladyhood ofher."Madam," the man said, "you'll live,I think, to see more than this.""Do you believe it?" the womangasped. Then: "I've gone through—much. I'm English. They took mychildren from me—my husband. He hadthe legal right. I had done no wrong, butwe quarrelled—over this." She tossedher hand toward the ranks. "Men areharder in England. It killed me. I havebeen—dead ever since." Then eagerly:"You think women here will get thevote?""Ah, madam," the man smiled, "lookfor yourself. Will American men resistthis—dignity of appeal? This is nohysterics. Our women must have whatthey judge right. Look at the faces ofthe crowd—see how sympathy is withthe marchers."Dick looked then, as the two talked.The women in the dense mass on the sidewalkbent forward, eager, as if learning athrilling lesson; the men regarded equallyintently, with varying expressions. Somewere wide-eyed and some were sympathetic,some set and disapproving; hereand there one saw a thoughtful man'sface drawn together and keen eyes watch-