the side of the mill-owner’s wife.  A table overturned and fragments of a late dinner scattered over the sideboard and on the floor, a broken plate, the print of a muddy foot on the white tiling before the open fire,—­the whole picture flashed upon Philip like a scene out of the French Revolution, and he almost rubbed his eyes to know if he was awake and in America in the nineteenth century.  He was intensely practical, however, and the nature of his duty never for a moment escaped him.  He at once advanced and said calmly:—­

“What does all this mean?  Why this attack on Mr. Winter?”

The moment Mr. Winter saw Philip and heard his voice he cried out, trembling:  “Is that you, Mr. Strong?  Thank God!  Save me!  They are going to kill me!”

“Who talks of killing, or taking human life contrary to law!” exclaimed Philip, coming up closer and placing his hand on Mr. Winter’s arm.  “Men, what are you doing?”

For a moment the crowd fell back a little from the mill-owner, and one of the men who had been foremost in the attack replied with some respect, although in a sullen manner, “Mr. Strong, this is not a case for your interference.  This man has caused the death of one of his employees and he deserves hanging.”

“And hanging he will get!” yelled another.  A great cry arose.  In the midst of it all Mr. Winter shrieked out his innocence.  “It is all a mistake!  They do not know!  Mr. Strong, tell them they do not know!”

The crowd closed around Mr. Winter again.  Philip knew enough about men to know that the mill-owner was in genuine danger.  Most of his assailants were the foreign element in the mills.  Many of them were under the influence of liquor.  The situation was critical.  Mr. Winter clung to Philip with the frantic clutch of a man who sees only one way of escape, and clings to that with mad eagerness.  Philip turned around and faced the mob.  He raised his voice, hoping to gain a hearing and reason with it.  But he might as well have raised his voice against a tornado.  Some one threw a handful of mud and snow toward the prisoner.  In an instant every hand reached for the nearest missile, and a shower of stones, muddy snow-balls and limbs torn from the trees on the lawn was rained upon the house.  Most of the windows in the lower story were broken.  All this time Philip was eagerly remonstrating with the few men who had their hands on Mr. Winter.  He thought if he could only plead with them to let the man go he could slip with him around the end of the veranda through a side door and take him through the house to a place of safety.  He also knew that every minute was precious, as the police might arrive at any moment and change the situation.

But in spite of his pleas, the mill-owner was gradually pushed and dragged down off the veranda toward the gate.  The men tried to get Philip out of the way.

“We don’t want to harm you, sir.  Better get out of danger,” said the same man who had spoken before.