By some odd whim of the weather the wind had backed around into the east, gathering the clouds once more.  The brilliancy of the morning had given place to greyness, the high slits of windows seemed dirtier than ever as the train pulled into the station at Hampton, shrouded in Gothic gloom.  As she left the car Janet was aware of the presence on the platform of an unusual number of people; she wondered vaguely, as she pushed her way through them, why they were there, what they were talking about?  One determination possessed her, to go to the Chippering Mill, to Ditmar.  Emerging from the street, she began to walk rapidly, the change from inaction to exercise bringing a certain relief, starting the working of her mind, arousing in her a realization of the necessity of being prepared for the meeting.  Therefore, instead of turning at Faber Street, she crossed it.  But at the corner of the Common she halted, her glance drawn by a dark mass of people filling the end of Hawthorne Street, where it was blocked by the brick-coloured facade of the Clarendon Mill.  In the middle distance men and boys were running to join this crowd.  A girl, evidently an Irish-American mill hand of the higher paid sort, hurried toward her from the direction of the mill itself.  Janet accosted her.

“It’s the strike,” she explained excitedly, evidently surprised at the question.  “The Polaks and the Dagoes and a lot of other foreigners quit when they got their envelopes—­stopped their looms and started through the mill, and when they came into our room I left.  I didn’t want no trouble with ’em.  It’s the fifty-four hour law—­their pay’s cut two hours.  You’ve heard about it, I guess.”

Janet nodded.

“They had a big mass meeting last night in Maxwell Hall,” the girl continued, “the foreigners—­not the skilled workers.  And they voted to strike.  They tell me they’re walking out over at the Patuxent, too.”

“And the Chippering?” asked Janet, eagerly.

“I don’t know—­I guess it’ll spread to all of ’em, the way these foreigners are going on—­they’re crazy.  But say,” the girl added, “it ain’t right to cut our pay, either, is it?  They never done it two years ago when the law came down to fifty-six.”

Janet did not wait to reply.  While listening to this explanation, excitement had been growing in her again, and some fearful, overpowering force of attraction emanating from that swarm in the distance drew her until she yielded, fairly running past the rows of Italian tenements in their strange setting of snow, not to pause until she reached the fruit shop where she and Eda had eaten the olives.  Now she was on the outskirts of the crowd that packed itself against the gates of the Clarendon.  It spread over the width of East Street, growing larger every minute, until presently she was hemmed in.  Here and there hoarse shouts of approval and cheers arose in response to invisible orators haranging their audiences in weird, foreign tongues; tiny American