No time to think of Husbands.

A fire broke out at night, and everybody was in terror lest it should reach the magazine.  The women and children were being hurried to the ships, and two ladies were hastening past my friend.  One of them paused, and, clasping her hands, demanded of him if he knew what had become of her husband.  Her companion was indignant.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t dawdle, Maria,” she cried; “this is no time to think of husbands.”

There is no reason to fear that the working woman will ever cease to think of husbands.  Maybe, as I have said, she will demand a better article than the mere husband-hunter has been able to stand out for.  Maybe she herself will have something more to give; maybe she will bring to him broader sympathies, higher ideals.  The woman who has herself been down among the people, who has faced life in the open, will know that the home is but one cell of the vast hive.

We shall, perhaps, hear less of the woman who “has her own home and children to think of—really takes no interest in these matters”—these matters of right and wrong, these matters that spell the happiness or misery of millions.