nsively, after some moments' consideration, "that
if I am to go at all, I had better go out by my own front door and
speak to the crowd from the street. They will be more likely to listen
to me there, than if they thought I was one of Mademoiselle Loire's
household."

"That is _very_ brave of you, monsieur," Barbara said, and the little
man swelled with pride. Perhaps it was the thought of the glorious
part he was about to play before the whole street that upheld him, as
he certainly was rather timid by nature.

"If _you_ are going out to face that mob," said Jean, drawing himself
up, "I will accompany you."

"Noble boy!" cried the little man, embracing him. "We will live or die
together. Come!" And off they went, while Barbara hurried across the
garden and over the wall again, not wishing to miss the spectacle in
the street. But her dress caught in the wood, and, as it took her some
time to disentangle it, the widower had finished his speech by the time
she arrived at the window. But he seemed to have made an impression,
for the crowd was beginning slowly to move on, urged by what
persuasions or threats she could not discover, as the Loires had not
heard much either.

But as long as the strikers went, the ladies did not much mind how they
had been persuaded, and when the last man had straggled out of sight,
and the sound of the drum was dying away, both the sisters, followed by
Marie, rushed downstairs and flung open the front door.

"Enter!" Mademoiselle Loire cried. "Enter, our preserver--our
rescuer!" and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, Mademoiselle
Therese seized one hand and her sister the other, till Barbara wondered
how the poor little man's arms remained on. Marie, meanwhile, did her
part by the son, and, as they all spoke at once, there was almost as
much noise in the house as previously there had been outside.

"Our noble preserver, what do we not owe to you!" shouted Mademoiselle
Therese, trying to drown her sister, who was speaking at his other ear.

"Facing the mob like a lion at bay--one man against a thousand!"
Barbara knew there had not been a hundred, but supposed a poetical
imagination must be allowed free play.

"He stood there as calmly as in church," Marie interpolated, though she
knew that the widower never went there, "with a cool smile playing
about his lips--it was a beautiful sight;" and Barbara regretted
exceedingly that her dress had detained her so long that she had