She was not, then, made of that fine stuff, that mental satin, which
enabled some other beings to be of such mighty service to the
distressed. She was defeated by a barn with one door, by four men with
eight eyes and eight ears--trivialities that would not impede the real
heroine.

The vivid white light of broad day began slowly to fade. Tones of grey
came upon the fields, and the shadows were of lead. In this more sombre
atmosphere the fires built by the troops down in the far end of the
orchard grew more brilliant, becoming spots of crimson colour in the
dark grove.

The girl heard a fretting voice from her mother's room. "Mary!" She
hastily obeyed the call. She perceived that she had quite forgotten her
mother's existence in this time of excitement.

The elder woman still lay upon the bed. Her face was flushed and
perspiration stood amid new wrinkles upon her forehead. Weaving wild
glances from side to side, she began to whimper. "Oh, I'm just sick--I'm
just sick! Have those men gone yet? Have they gone?"

The girl smoothed a pillow carefully for her mother's head. "No, ma.
They're here yet. But they haven't hurt anything--it doesn't seem. Will
I get you something to eat?"

Her mother gestured her away with the impatience of the ill. "No--no--
just don't bother me. My head is splitting, and you know very well that
nothing can be done for me when I get one of these spells. It's trouble--
that's what makes them. When are those men going? Look here, don't you
go 'way. You stick close to the house now."