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They went around about it frantically; they bore along the edge of the crowd, beside the houses; they wedged past one stoop; they were about to get past the next, when, in the light of the lamp, Joe saw a strange sight. Crouched on that stoop, with clothes torn, with hair loosed down her back, her face white, her lips gasping, sat one of the hat factory girls. It was Fannie Lemick. Joe knew her.
Joe was just a boy then to her, and her great woman-heart drew him in and sheltered him in the sacred warmth of her being. In that moment she had reached the highest point of her womanhood, a new unfolding, a new release. And then had come horror, and he had been swept away from her one glimpse of his numb, ghastly face, and he was gone. It was Fannie Lemick that took her home.
Your MYRA. To which he merely replied: DEAR MYRA, I shall remember what you say, and I shall see you when I can. Yours, JOE. It was on Sunday afternoon that Joe met Fannie Lemick on the street. Her eyes filled with tears and he noticed she was trembling. "Mr. Joe!" she cried. "Yes, Fannie...." "Are you going, too?" "Going where?" "Don't you know? The mass-meeting at Carnegie Hall!"
And then one evening in the Park like a flash came the plan. He must go among the poor, he must get to know them not in this neighborhood, "a prophet is not without honor, etc." but in some new place where he was unknown. He thought of Greenwich Village. Did not Fannie Lemick tell him that Sally Heffer lived in Greenwich Village? Well, he would look into the matter.
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