“I don’t know who,” Ellen returned, with a gentle haughtiness.

Andrew colored.  He was at his usual task of paring apples.  Andrew, in lieu of regular work outside, assisted in these household tasks, that his wife might have more time to sew.  He looked unusually worn and old that night.

“If anybody does come, Ellen will have to get up, that’s all,” said Fanny, when the girl had gone up-stairs.  Then she pricked up her ears, for the electric-car had stopped before the house.  Then it went on, with a sharp clang of the bell and a gathering rush of motion.

“That car stopped,” Fanny said, breathlessly, her work falling from her fingers.  Andrew and she both listened intently, then footsteps were heard plainly coming around the path at the side of the house.

Fanny’s face fell.  “It’s only some of the men,” said she, in a low voice.  Then there came a knock on the side door, and Andrew ushered in John Sargent, Joe Atkins, and Amos Lee.  Nahum Beals did not come in those days, for he was in prison awaiting trial for the murder of Norman Lloyd.  However, Amos Lee’s note was as impressive as his.  He called often with Sargent and Atkins.  They could not shake him off.  He lay in wait for them at street corners, and joined them.  He never saw Ellen alone, and did not openly proclaim his calls as meant for her.  She prevented him from doing that in a manner which he could not withstand, full of hot and reckless daring as he was.  When he entered that night he looked around with keen furtiveness, and was evidently listening and watching for her, though presently his voice rose high in discussion with the others.  After a while the man who lived next door dropped in, and his wife with him.  She and Fanny withdrew to the dining-room with their sewing—­for the woman also worked on wrappers—­and left the sitting-room to the men.

“It beats all how they like to talk,” said the woman, with a large-minded leniency, “and they never get anywhere,” she added.  “They work themselves all up, and never get anywhere; but men are all like that.”

“Yes, they be,” assented Fanny.

“Jest hear that Lee feller,” said the woman.

Amos Lee’s voice was audible over the little house, and could have been heard in the yard, for it had an enormous carrying quality.  It was the voice of a public ranter.  Ellen, up in her chamber, lying in her bed, with a lamp at her side, reading, closely covered from the cold—­for the room was unheated—­heard him with a shiver of disgust and repulsion, and yet with a fierce sympathy and loyalty.  She could not distinguish every word he said, but she knew well what he was talking about.