THE CAGE
carriage was going through the street where the great labor parade had passed. All that was left of it was cluttered sidewalk, bits of wind-swept bunting, and silence. It was like the thoroughfares of the past—empty of the ideals and illusions which had brought the crowds for a short time. Earlier in the day an idea had surged up and down, had marched and sung, but later it was disintegrated and scattered among alleys and avenues. The street was now a forlorn streak like a dash written before the words "and now?" It is very dreary to follow in the wake of a people's excitement.
Frederica touched Eugene's hand sympathetically. "You wanted to be here this morning very much, didn't you?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You ought not to have—humored me; I was not sick enough to delay; it was only a cold."
"But I could not risk your illness."
"I don't want ever to interfere with your plans, Eugene." She spoke almost timidly.
"A woman can't help that."
"Oh!" she said in surprise, for there was a hint of resignation in his voice. "You believe that I may come between you and your work?"
"Very often." He turned as though to kiss her, but she felt he was seeking a compensation for what she might possibly deprive him of, and she managed to look out of the carriage window without his guessing that she had evaded a caress from him. It was the first break in her unthinking happiness as his wife: that he believed she would interfere with his work.
The day they had planned to start home she had had a chill and a little fever, and he had insisted upon wait-
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