soft relaxed little forms with a heart almost too full for prayer.
She was, in a word, old-fashioned, hopelessly out of the modern
current of thoughts and events. She secretly regarded her children
as marvellous, even while she laughed down their youthful conceit
and punished their naughtiness.

Thinking a little of all these things, as a girl with her own
wifehood and motherhood all before her does think, Margaret went
back to her hot luncheon. One o'clock found her at her desk,
refreshed in spirit by her little outburst, and much fortified
in body. The room was well aired, and a reinforced fire roared
in the little stove. One of the children had brought her a spray
of pine, and the spicy fragrance of it reminded her that Christmas
and the Christmas vacation were near; her mind was pleasantly busy
with anticipation of the play that the Pagets always wrote and
performed some time during the holidays, and with the New Year's
costume dance at the Hall, and a dozen lesser festivities.

Suddenly, in the midst of a droning spelling lesson, there was a
jarring interruption. From the world outside came a child's shrill
screaming, which was instantly drowned in a chorus of frightened
voices, and in the schoolroom below her own Margaret heard a
thundering rush of feet, and answering screams. With a suffocating
terror at her heart she ran to the window, followed by every child
in the room.

The rain had stopped now, and the sky showed a pale, cold, yellow
light low in the west. At the schoolhouse gate an immense limousine
car had come to a stop. The driver, his face alone visible between
a great leather coat and visored leather cap, was talking unheard