was a shadow still of sadness in his eyes.

"It is a moment's frenzy," he said. "They have seen a gleam of the
truth. When the light goes out, the old burden will seem all the
heavier. It is so little that man can do for them."

They had flung open the top of the cab, and Maraton's eyes were fixed
far ahead at the dull glow which hung over the city, the haze of smoke
and heat, stretching like a sulphurous pall southwards. The roar of
voices was always in his ears, but for a moment his thoughts seemed to
have passed away, his eyes seemed to be seeking for some message beyond
the clouds. He alone knew the full meaning of the hour which had
passed.

They were sitting alone in the library, the French windows wide open,
the languorous night air heavy with the perfume of roses and the
sweetness of the cedars, drawn out by the long day's sunshine. Mr.
Foley was sitting with folded arms, silent and pensive--a man waiting.
And by his side was Elisabeth, standing for a moment with her fingers
upon his shoulder.

"Is that eleven o'clock?" she asked.

"A quarter past," he answered. "We shall hear in a few minutes now."

She moved restlessly away. There was something spectral about her in
her light muslin frock, as she vanished through the windows and
reappeared almost immediately, threading her way amongst the flower
beds. Suddenly the telephone bell at Mr. Foley's elbow rang. He
raised the receiver. She came swiftly to his side.

"Manchester?" she heard him say. . . . "Yes, this is Lyndwood Park.
It is Mr. Foley speaking. Go on."

There was silence then. Elisabeth stood with parted lips and luminous
eyes, her hand upon his shoulder. She watched him,--watched the slow
movement of his head, the relaxing of his hard, thin lips, the flash in
his eyes. She knew--from the first she knew!

"Thank you very much, and good night," Mr. Foley said, as he replaced
the receiver.

Then he turned quickly to Elisabeth and caught her hand. "They say that
Maraton's speech was wonderful," he announced. "He declared war, but a
man's war. Cotton first, and cotton alone."

She gave a little sobbing breath. Her hands were locked together.

"England will never know," Mr. Foley added, in a voice still trembling
with emotion, "what she has escaped!"

CHAPTER XVIII

Those wonderful few days at Manchester had passed, and oppressed by the
inevitable reaction, Julia was back at work in the clothing factory.

She had given up her place