itself—­or else the sovereign state within whose borders it was would take care of it.  And his Honour the Mayor, who had proclaimed his faith in the reasonableness of the strikers, who had scorned the suggestions of indignant inhabitants that the Governor be asked for soldiers, twenty-four hours too late arranged for the assembly of three companies of local militia in the armory, and swore in a hundred extra police.

The hideous stillness of Fillmore Street was driving Janet mad.  What she burned to do was to go to Boston and take a train for somewhere in the West, to lose herself, never to see Hampton again.  But—­there was her mother.  She could not leave Hannah in these empty rooms, alone; and Edward was to remain at the mill, to eat and sleep there, until the danger of the strike had passed.  A messenger had come to fetch his clothes.  After leaving Ditmar in the office of the mill, Janet crept up the dark stairs to the flat and halted in the hallway.  Through the open doorway of the dining-room she saw Hannah seated on the horsehair sofa —­for the first time within memory idle at this hour of the day.  Nothing else could have brought home to her like this the sheer tragedy of their plight.  Until then Janet had been sustained by anger and excitement, by physical action.  She thought Hannah was staring at her; after a moment it seemed that the widened pupils were fixed in fascination on something beyond, on the Thing that had come to dwell here with them forever.

Janet entered the room.  She sat down on the sofa and took her mother’s hand in hers.  And Hannah submitted passively.  Janet could not speak.  A minute might have passed, and the silence, which neither had broken, acquired an intensity that to Janet became unbearable.  Never had the room been so still!  Her glance, raised instinctively to the face of the picture-clock, saw the hands pointing to ten.  Every Monday morning, as far back as she could recall, her father had wound it before going to work—­and to-day he had forgotten.  Getting up, she opened the glass door, and stood trying to estimate the hour:  it must be, she thought, about six.  She set the hands, took the key from the nail above the shelf, wound up the weight, and started the pendulum.  And the sound of familiar ticking was a relief, releasing at last her inhibited powers of speech.

“Mother,” she said, “I’ll get some supper for you.”

On Hannah, these simple words had a seemingly magical effect.  Habit reasserted itself.  She started, and rose almost briskly.

“No you won’t,” she said, “I’ll get it.  I’d ought to have thought of it before.  You must be tired and hungry.”

Her voice was odd and thin.  Janet hesitated a moment, and ceded.

“Well, I’ll set the dishes on the table, anyway.”

Janet had sought refuge, wistfully, in the commonplace.  And when the meal was ready she strove to eat, though food had become repulsive.