Joe, in the court-room, had seized Myra’s arm.

“Let us get out of this!”

They went through the gateway, up the aisle, out the dim entrance, into the streets.  It was two in the morning, and the narrow canons were emptied of life, save the shadowy fleeting shape of some night prowler, some creature of the underworld.  The air was a trifle less cold, and a fine hard snow was sifting down—­crunched underfoot—­a bitter, tiny, stinging snow—­hard and innumerable.

Cavernous and gloomy seemed the street, as they trudged west, arm in arm.  Myra had never been so stirred in her life; she felt as if things ugly and dangerous had been released in her heart; a flame seemed raging in her breast.  And then as they went on, Joe found vent in hard words.

“And such things go on in this city—­in this high civilization—­and this is a part of life—­and then they wonder why we are so unreasonable.  It goes on, and they shut their eyes to it.  The newspapers and magazines hush it up.  No, no, don’t give this to the readers, they want something pleasant, something optimistic!  Suppress it!  Don’t let the light of publicity smite it and clear it up!  Let it go on!  Let the secret sore fester.  It smells bad, it looks bad.  Keep the surgeon away.  We might lose subscribers, we might be accused of muck-raking.  But I tell you,” his voice rose, “this world will never be much better until we face the worst of it!  Oh,” he gave a heavy groan, “Myra!  Myra!  I wonder if I ever will be happy again!”

Myra spoke from her heart.

“You’re overworked, Joe; you’re unstrung.  Perhaps you see this too big—­out of perspective!”

He spoke with intense bitterness.

“It’s all my fault.  It’s all my fault.  If I hadn’t been so sleepy I’d have sent for a lawyer.  I thought, of course, he’d be there!”

Myra spoke eagerly: 

“That’s just it, Joe.  Oh, won’t you take a rest?  Won’t you go away awhile?  Just for your work’s sake.”

He mused sadly: 

“Mother keeps saying the same thing.”

“She’s right!” cried Myra.  “Joe, you’re killing yourself.  How can you really serve the strike if you’re in this condition?”

He spoke more quietly.

“They need me, Myra.  Do you think I’m worse off than Rhona?”

Myra could not answer this.  It is a curious fact that some of the terrible moments of life are afterward treasured as the great moments.  Looked back upon, they are seen to be the vital step forward, the readjustment and growth of character, and not for anything would any real man or woman miss them.  Afterward Myra discovered that this night had been one of the master nights of her life, and when she repictured that walk up Tenth Street at two in the morning, through the thin sifting snow, the big tragic man at he; side, it seemed a beautiful and wonderful thing.  They had been all alone out in the city’s streets, close together, feeling as one the reality of life, sharing as one the sharp unconquerable tragedy, suffering together against the injustice of the world.