ssed like a flash of light through the crowd of dusky figures. How she
did it I could never understand, for the two heavy bolts had both been
drawn, but the next moment the door stood wide open; and a hum of voices,
cheery with the anticipation of a period of perfect bliss, was borne in
upon the cool night air.

My mother was always very quick of hearing.

* * * * *

Again, I see a wild crowd of grim faces, and my father's, very pale,
amongst them. But this time the faces are very many, and they come and
go like faces in a dream. The ground beneath my feet is wet and sloppy,
and a black rain is falling. There are women's faces in the crowd, wild
and haggard, and long skinny arms stretch out threateningly towards my
father, and shrill, frenzied voices call out curses on him. Boys' faces
also pass me in the grey light, and on some of them there is an impish
grin.

I seem to be in everybody's way; and to get out of it, I crawl into a
dark, draughty corner and crouch there among cinders. Around me, great
engines fiercely strain and pant like living things fighting beyond their
strength. Their gaunt arms whirl madly above me, and the ground rocks
with their throbbing. Dark figures flit to and fro, pausing from time to
time to wipe the black sweat from their faces.

The pale light fades, and the flame-lit night lies red upon the land. The
flitting figures take strange shapes. I hear the hissing of wheels, the
furious clanking of iron chains, the hoarse shouting of many voices, the
hurrying tread of many feet; and, through all, the wailing and weeping
and cursing that never seem to cease. I drop into a restless sleep, and
dream that I have broken a chapel window, stone-throwing, and have died
and gone to hell.

At length, a cold hand is laid upon my shoulder, and I awake. The wild
faces have vanished and all is silent now, and I wonder if the whole
thing has been a dream. My father lifts me into the dog-cart, and we
drive home through the chill dawn.

My mother opens the door softly as we alight. She does not speak, only
looks her question. "It's all over, Maggie," answers my father very
quietly, as he takes off his coat and lays it across a chair; "we've got
to begin the world afresh."

My mother's arms steal up about his neck; and I, feeling heavy with a
trouble I do not understand, creep off to bed.

THE LEASE OF THE "CROSS KEYS."

This story is about a shop: many stories are. One Sunday