r hours too late arranged for the assembly of three
companies of local militia in the armory, and swore in a hundred extra
police.

The hideous stillness of Fillmore Street was driving Janet mad. What she
burned to do was to go to Boston and take a train for somewhere in the
West, to lose herself, never to see Hampton again. But--there was her
mother. She could not leave Hannah in these empty rooms, alone; and
Edward was to remain at the mill, to eat and sleep there, until the
danger of the strike had passed. A messenger had come to fetch his
clothes. After leaving Ditmar in the office of the mill, Janet crept up
the dark stairs to the flat and halted in the hallway. Through the open
doorway of the dining-room she saw Hannah seated on the horsehair sofa
--for the first time within memory idle at this hour of the day. Nothing
else could have brought home to her like this the sheer tragedy of their
plight. Until then Janet had been sustained by anger and excitement, by
physical action. She thought Hannah was staring at her; after a moment it
seemed that the widened pupils were fixed in fascination on something
beyond, on the Thing that had come to dwell here with them forever.

Janet entered the room. She sat down on the sofa and took her mother's
hand in hers. And Hannah submitted passively. Janet could not speak. A
minute might have passed, and the silence, which neither had broken,
acquired an intensity that to Janet became unbearable. Never had the room
been so still! Her glance, raised instinctively to the face of the
picture-clock, saw the hands pointing to ten. Every Monday morning, as
far back as she could recall, her father had wound it before going to
work--and to-day he had forgotten. Getting up, she opened the glass door,
and stood trying to estimate the hour: it must be, she thought, about
six. She set the hands, took the key from the nail above the shelf, wound
up the weight, and started the pendulum. And the sound of familiar
ticking was a relief, releasing at last her inhibited powers of speech.

"Mother," she said, "I'll get some supper for you."

On Hannah, these simple words had a seemingly magical effect. Habit
reasserted itself. She started, and rose almost briskly.

"No you won't," she said, "I'll get it. I'd ought to have thought of it
before. You must be tired and hungry."

Her voice was odd and thin. Janet hesitated a moment, and ceded.

"Well, I'll set the dishes on the table, anyway."

J