Yes, she
had grown; but with her growth had come a restlessness; she felt as
though something were giving way beneath her feet like an iceberg
melting in mild waters. There was one particular night that this
restlessness had been strong. She had been to the Modern Language Club,
and listened to a lecture on Walt Whitman, by Dr. Needler. She had never
read any of Whitman's poetry before, she did not even like it. But there
were phrases and sentences here and there, sometimes of Whitman's,
sometimes of Dr. Needler's, that awakened a strange incoherent music in
her soul--a new chord was struck. It was almost dark when she reached
her room, at the close of a stormy winter day. She stood at her window
watching the crimson and black drifts of cloud piled upon each other in
the west. Strife and glory she seemed to read in that sky. She thought
of Whitman's rugged manliness, of the way he had mingled with all
classes of men--mingled with them to do them good. And Beth's heart
cried out within her, only to do something in this great, weary
world--something to uplift, to ennoble men, to raise the lowly, to feed
and to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the millions of homes, to
lift men--she knew not where.
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