Dum-de-de-dum-de-de-dum-dum.

Shawn clapped out the rhythm as she swayed back and forth. She felt heady with the throbbing music and Shawn’s admiring glances.

"Laura, you’re gorgeous," Shawn said, eyes twinkling. "If I had my camera I’d capture that sparkle in those green eyes. I swear they’re brighter than two emeralds."

As they wended their way back to their table, she glowed at his compliment and for a moment thought of Joe, who had never been quite so eloquent or appreciative of her.

Sitting down, she looked up to thank Shawn, but before she could say anything, he leaned over and kissed her.

Blushing, she glanced around, but the other couples were oblivious of her happiness.

"Will you be my girl, Laura?" he whispered in her ear.

"I-I…" She didn’t know what to reply. Was he serious?

Shawn chuckled. "You will. You just need a little time to get to know me."

Secretly she wondered if he was right. Despite her wish, the special evening did come to an end, and although they said very little on the ride home, nonetheless the silence between them radiated a warm rapport.

The next evening, as Laura walked down the brick sidewalk, past the small clapboard houses on the way to Cassie’s house, her mind wasn’t on the suffragist meeting they would attend but on last night’s dance. She looked up between the elm branches at the star-filled sky and saw herself dancing with Shawn. It had been a marvelously romantic evening, and what was even better was that they were going dancing next Saturday, too. But the most thrilling part of the dance was that Shawn had kissed her and asked her to be his girl.

With a brief frown she snapped off a small twig of an overhanging branch and wondered if perhaps Shawn O’Brien was only charm and sweet words. However, she dismissed the unpleasant thought, wishing that Joe had more of Shawn’s lighthearted banter and appreciation of her.

As she turned off N Street onto Fishing Lane, she glimpsed the Whiting home in the distance. The gaslight lantern at the entrance of the red-brick house and the green ivy entwining the turquoise-painted double doors looked so inviting. For a moment she could almost hear the night watchman of Colonial times going up and down the street on his nightly rounds calling out, "Seven o’clock. A fair, bright night… all’s well!"

As she neared the front steps she could see the chandelier’s sparkling crystal teardrops twinkling over the Whitings' dining room table. Her mind came back to the reason she was going with Cassie, and she remembered the pamphlet she had read, written by Alice Paul. Tonight she would actually hear her speak. A twinge of doubt assailed Laura, and she wondered if she should really involve herself in the Women’s Movement. If her time was so taken up now, how could she squeeze another activity into her schedule?

As she lifted the heavy brass door knocker, she smiled. Just because she was attending a suffragist meeting, it didn’t mean she would have to become one.

Cassie, tall and striking in her coat and high boots, answered the door. "Let’s go," she said quickly, fitting her fur hat over her dark hair. The white fox fur was a stunning frame for her lovely oval face. "We mustn’t be late, because Miss Paul will start her speech at the stroke of seven-thirty."

The two girls hurried to catch the trolley that would carry them to the Women’s Headquarters in Lafayette Park, just across from the gates of the White House.

When they entered the warm hall filled with banners and posters, Laura estimated that there were about five hundred women there. Some were seated in the rows of chairs; others, in small groups, were in animated discussion. Laura caught a few of their words as she and Cassie moved toward their seats: "… the vote… President Wilson… workhouse… jail… force-feeding." She could feel the energy and vitality pulsate in this room. Her anticipation heightened.

They sat close to the front of the stage, and while Cassie chatted with a suffragist behind her, Laura sat studying the poster on the wall. However, when a small woman entered, accompanied by a stout younger companion, she sat straight up in her chair. Laura would recognize Miss Paul anywhere. Her thin face was dominated by metal-rimmed spectacles, and her dark hair was piled on top of her head. She looked smaller than in the photograph she had seen. Despite being a tiny woman, Miss Paul radiated confidence and zeal. It was evident, too, that all her energy was focused on one thing — the Women’s Movement.

As Laura watched this woman take a chair in back of the rostrum, her pulse picked up a beat, and she waited eagerly for Miss Paul’s first words. Laura marveled at this woman, a veteran of the English suffrage campaign, who had sailed to the United States to help her fellow sisters in their vote crusade and who had climbed to be the head of the National Women’s Party. She was amazed that Miss Paul was such a fighter. She was not only an activist, but a militant one as well. Laura wondered how many parades and cross-country motor cavalcades she had organized since 1913, and how many White House pickets since 1917.

Everyone quieted as a stout lady stood behind the speaker’s podium and waited for a few stragglers to find their places. Laura’s eyes returned to Alice Paul, the diminutive woman seated calmly with her hands folded on her lap. Her square chin was just as determined as the eyes that snapped with intelligence and fire. She wore a simple blue serge suit that was a good background for the brilliant yellow "Votes for Women" sash across her chest.

The first speaker, her round face aglow with fervor, began to speak. Immediately a hush came over the hall. "As most of you know, I’m Miss Logan, and it’s my great pleasure to introduce Miss Paul. It is so good to have Alice back in our midst again, for this is her first appearance since her release from prison. While in the workhouse, Alice demanded to be treated as a political prisoner and was able to win this privilege for all suffragists."

Applause burst upon the room, but Miss Logan held up her hand. "Alice went on a twenty-two-day hunger strike, and at one point was force-fed, but the antisuffragists still couldn’t elicit a promise from her that she wouldn’t come back to us and organize more picket lines in front of the White House. Our work will continue!" Miss Logan turned slightly and bowed her head at Alice. "She came out of prison a heroine. Even the House Rules Committee, which for years has bottled up the suffrage amendment, has brought it to the floor for debate."

A cheer broke out, and although Miss Paul inclined her head and gazed around the room, she didn’t smile. Her cool demeanor was to be admired. Laura wondered how she could remain so serene in this warm room with the exhilaration rising from each word.

"I leave you with a statement of the prison doctor," Miss Logan said in a louder voice, "who said of our leader, Miss Paul, This is a spirit like Joan of Arc, and it is useless to try to change it. She will die, but she will never give up!"

Briefly the words from a pamphlet she had read about Alice Paul’s imprisonment flickered through Laura’s head: "… the meal of soup, rye bread, and water was not palatable. We all tried to be sensible and eat enough to keep up our strength. One of the worst problems was the enforced silence…." A slight shiver vibrated up Laura’s spine when she recalled the description of the force-feeding, but just then, Miss Logan resumed speaking.

"As you can see," the rotund woman said, "Alice is very much alive and back with us to carry on our struggle." Her voice rose to a shrill tone. "I present to you, Miss Alice Paul!"

The applause and cheers were deafening, and Laura’s blood surged with each wave of applause.

Miss Paul stepped to the podium, shook Miss Logan’s hand, and looked out over the audience. It was surprising that such a slightly built woman could command this militant organization. Her belted long jacket, with a gray squirrel collar and cuffs, reached almost to her skirt hem, which came just above her buckled shoes. Her hand touched her hair in a quick, nervous gesture, and she showed the ravages of her seven-month stint at Occoquan, a workhouse for women prisoners in Virginia. Laura’s heart twisted in an agony of sympathy for Miss Paul’s ordeal. It was difficult to fathom how she could return to the cause with such indomitable courage.

Miss Paul cleared her throat and drew herself up to her full height. "Our picketing has resumed and will continue until women have the right to vote! For the first time last month, President Wilson has acknowledged that he will support our amendment, but until it has passed both houses of Congress, we mustn’t relax for a moment. The twelve suffragists who stand their hourly vigils before 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue are the backbone of the women’s cause. They don’t falter… they stand through rain, snow, and sleet. You are the ones that should be cheered. I salute you. Don’t give up until we win!" She held up her clenched fist.

Laura listened with every fiber of her being as Miss Paul’s clear, ardent tones rang throughout the hall. There was no faltering in her speech or in her plan. The plan was simple. To picket. To go to jail if necessary and not to stop until the goal was achieved. Laura felt a resolve growing within her that was close to bursting. She wanted to be part of this wonderful organization, and she made up her mind to become a member. She realized that she could make a difference. On impulse she reached over and grabbed Cassie’s hand.

Cassie turned to Laura. "Isn’t she marvelous?"