To others it might seem, during some of the sessions, as a pathetic attempt of village women to raise themselves upon tiptoes enough to peer over their centuries of weedy feminine growth; an attempt which was as futile, and even ridiculous, as an attempt of a cow to fly.

But the Zenith Club justified its existence nobly in the result of little Annie Eustace, if in no other, and it, no doubt, justified itself in others.

Who can say what that weekly gathering meant to women who otherwise would not move outside their little treadmill of household labour, what uplifting, if seemingly futile grasps at the great outside of life?
Let no one underrate the Women's Club until the years have proven its uselessness.
"I am so sorry about Lydia Greenway," said Annie, and this time she did not irritate Margaret.
"It does seem as if one were simply doomed to failure every time one really made an effort to raise standards," said Margaret.
Then it was that Annie all unconsciously sowed a seed which led to strange, and rather terrifying results.

"It would be nice," said little Annie, "if we could get Miss Martha Wallingford to read a selection from _Hearts Astray_ at a meeting of the club.

I read a few nights ago, in a paper I happened to pick up at Alice's, that she was staying in New York at the Hollingsgate.