“Yes—you know I’m Irish.”
“And what a warm, loyal heart!”
“That’s Irish, too, isn’t it? And there the armour’s on!” she added, rising. “And now your overcoat, for it’s bitter cold, and this muffler around your neck,” and she tucked the ends in under his coat. “There,” she concluded, buttoning the last button, and raised herself on tip-toe and kissed him. “Good-bye, Allan, and come back to me.”
“Good-bye, Mamie; never fear,” and he was off and away.
And Mamie, drawing closer about her the shawl she had thrown on when she slipped out of bed, hurried up the stairs and knocked at the door of the room where her parents slept. It was in the back wing of the house, farthest from the street, which accounted for the fact that they had not been awakened by the hurrying feet and excited talk of the ever-increasing crowd running toward the fire. But Mamie’s knock awakened Mary on the instant.
“What is it?” she called.
“It’s Mamie—the strikers have set the yards on fire and blown up the freight-house—and Allan’s gone!”
“Gone!” echoed Mary, and sprang out of bed. “Jack!” she cried. “Wake up!” and she repeated to him what Mamie had just told her.
Jack, with never a word, was out of bed and into his clothes, while his wife, with trembling fingers, lighted a lamp and opened the door for Mamie.
“How do you know he’s gone?” demanded Mary. “Did you see him?”