fingers clasped exultantly something heavy, something wrapped carefully in layers of flannel.  She had feared her father might have taken it to the mill!  She drew it out, unwound the flannel, and held to the light an old-fashioned revolver, the grease glistening along its barrel.  She remembered, too, that the cartridges had lain beside it, and thrusting her hand once more into the drawer found the box, extracting several, and replacing the rest, closed the drawer, and crept through the dining-room to her bedroom, where she lit the gas in order to examine the weapon —­finally contriving, more by accident than skill, to break it.  The cartridges, of course, fitted into the empty cylinder.  But before inserting them she closed the pistol once more, cocked it, and held it out.  Her arm trembled violently as she pulled the trigger.  Could she do it?  As though to refute this doubt of her ability to carry out an act determined upon, she broke the weapon once more, loaded and closed it, and thrust it in the pocket of her coat.  Then, washing the grease from her hands, she put on her gloves, and was about to turn out the light when she saw reflected in the glass the red button of the I.W.W. still pinned on her coat.  This she tore off, and flung on the bureau.

When she had kissed her mother, when she had stood hesitatingly in the darkness of the familiar front bedroom in the presence of unsummoned memories of a home she had believed herself to resent and despise, she had nearly faltered.  But once in the street, this weakness suddenly vanished, was replaced by a sense of wrong that now took complete and furious possession of her, driving her like a gale at her back.  She scarcely felt on her face the fine rain that had begun to fall once more.  Her feet were accustomed to the way.  When she had turned down West Street and almost gained the canal, it was with a shock of surprise that she found herself confronted by a man in a long cape who held a rifle and barred her path.  She stared at him as at an apparition.

“You can’t get by here,” he said.  “Don’t you know that?”

She did not reply.  He continued to look at her, and presently asked, in a gentler tone:—­“Where did you wish to go, lady?”

“Into the mill,” she replied, “to the offices.”

“But there can’t anybody go through here unless they have a pass.  I’m sorry, but that’s the order.”

Her answer came so readily as to surprise her.

“I was Mr. Ditmar’s private stenographer.  I have to see him.”

The sentry hesitated, and then addressed another soldier, who was near the bridge.

“Hi, sergeant!” he called.  The sergeant came up—­a conscientious Boston clerk who had joined the militia from a sense of duty and a need for exercise.  While the sentry explained the matter he gazed at Janet.  Then he said politely:—­“I’m sorry, Miss, but I can’t disobey orders.”

“But can’t you send word to Mr. Ditmar, and tell him I want to see him?” she asked.