It was only a small sound at first. Becca Grenville had been headed to bed, but she hesitated at the foot of the stairs as she listened. It had sounded like a wagon rumbling over the cobblestones outside. Could someone be arriving at this time of night? She shook her head at the very idea, but she wouldn’t put it past her brother Johnny, she decided. She waited for his knock.

Then an explosive boom slammed into her whole body. It was not only a sound. It had weight and strength to thrust her backward against the stairs. She couldn’t seem to breathe. Her chest hurt with the effort. She stumbled as the floor rocked beneath her feet and she fell backward. The kerosene lamp she carried dropped from her hand and shattered on the parquet tiles of the hallway. A small tongue of flame licked at the edge of the puddle of kerosene. The rest of the world had grown very dark, and the sound went on and on.

Am I dying, she asked herself. Is this what dying is like—a pain without cause, a lack of air and light, whirling vision, nausea, fear, and above all, the sound? She somehow had expected dying to be quieter. Then the acrid kerosene smell aroused her, and she struggled to her feet, stamping out the flames that were beginning to spread. Still disoriented in a world that would not stand still, she grasped the newell post at the foot of the stairs and clung there, only hoping that something—someone—would make this heaving, rocking motion stop.

As if in answer to her prayer, the movement did stop, although she could now hear other discordant sounds. Bells were clanging without reason or harmony from church steeples. Invisible people were screaming. Periodic crashes echoed from all sides. Glass shattered. Horses whinnied in terror. Dogs barked and howled.

And then the roaring came again. Becca sank onto the bottom steps, wrapping her arms around her head to blot out the sound, but it did not help. The noise seemed to come from every side, from above and below, even from inside her very soul. Another odd smell—like wet ashes—made her open her eyes. She watched in disbelief as the parlor fireplace spewed dust and smoke and then sank from view, leaving only a gaping hole in the floor.

Some Say: The majority of women don’t want to vote, and women will not vote when they are given the right.

We Say: The number who want the vote is always many times greater than the number who don’t, and official figures show women DO vote largely wherever they have the right.

Some Say: Women have enough to do without voting.

We Say: Voting only takes a few minutes and can be done on the way to the market.

Some Say: It would double the ignorant vote.

We Say: One-third more girls than boys attend high schools, and women are rapidly becoming the more educated class.”