expected did not come. They were discreet and well-regulated elderly people who had lived long in the manufacturing districts, and had passed through little unpleasantnesses before. They knew that under existing circumstances it would be wiser to remain at home than to run the risk of exposing themselves to spasmodic criticism and its results.
But they had visitors.
The dinner hour passed and they were still alone. Even Murdoch had not come. A dead silence reigned in the room. Ffrench was trying to read and not succeeding very well. Miss Ffrench stood by the window looking out. It was a clear night and the moon was at full; it was easy to see far up the road upon whose whiteness the trees cast black shadows. She was looking up this road toward the town. She had been watching it steadily for some time. Once her father had turned to her restlessly, saying:
"Why do you stand there? You—you might be expecting something to happen."
She did not make any reply and still retained her position. But about half an hour afterward, she turned suddenly and spoke in a low, clear tone.
"If you are afraid, you had better go away," she said. "They are coming."
It was evident that she at least felt no alarm, though there was a thrill of excitement in her voice. Mr. Ffrench sprang up from his seat.
"They are coming!" he echoed. "Good God! What do you mean?"
It was not necessary that she should enter into an explanation. A clamor of voices in the road told its own story. There were shouts and riotous cries which, in a
