Janet failed with the Jewess, who obstinately refused to listen or reply as the two walked along with her, one on either side.  Near West Street they spied a policeman, and desisted.  Up and down Faber Street, everywhere, the game went on:  but the police were watchful, and once a detachment of militia passed.  The picketing had to be done quickly, in the few minutes that were to elapse before the gates should close.  Janet’s blood ran faster, she grew excited, absorbed, bolder as she perceived the apologetic attitude of the “scabs” and she began to despise them with Gemma’s heartiness; and soon she had lost all sense of surprise at finding herself arguing, pleading, appealing to several women in turn, fluently, in the language of the industrial revolution.  Some—­because she was an American—­examined her with furtive curiosity; others pretended not to understand, accelerating their pace.  She gained no converts that morning, but one girl, pale, anemic with high cheek bones evidently a Slav—­listened to her intently.

“I gotta right to work,” she said.

“Not if others will starve because you work,” objected Janet.

“If I don’t work I starve,” said the girl.

“No, the Committee will take care of you—­there will be food for all.  How much do you get now?”

“Four dollar and a half.”

“You starve now,” Janet declared contemptuously.  “The quicker you join us, the sooner you’ll get a living wage.”

The girl was not quite convinced.  She stood for a while undecided, and then ran abruptly off in the direction of West Street.  Janet sought for others, but they had ceased coming; only the scattered, prowling picketers remained.

Over the black rim of the Clarendon Mill to the eastward the sky had caught fire.  The sun had risen, the bells were ringing riotously, resonantly in the clear, cold air.  Another working day had begun.

Janet, benumbed with cold, yet agitated and trembling because of her unwonted experience of the morning, made her way back to Fillmore Street.  She was prepared to answer any questions her mother might ask; as they ate their dismal breakfast, and Hannah asked no questions, she longed to blurt out where she had been, to announce that she had cast her lot with the strikers, the foreigners, to defend them and declare that these were not to blame for the misfortunes of the family, but men like Ditmar and the owners of the mills, the capitalists.  Her mother, she reflected bitterly, had never once betrayed any concern as to her shattered happiness.  But gradually, as from time to time she glanced covertly at Hannah’s face, her resentment gave way to apprehension.  Hannah did not seem now even to be aware of her presence; this persistent apathy filled her with a dread she did not dare to acknowledge.

“Mother!” she cried at last.

Hannah started.  “Have you finished?” she asked.

“Yes.”