She passed the first group and nodded, as she had a habit of doing, for she had come to feel as if the toilers of England were her especial charge. They smiled in return, and one stared and whispered to the others. Julia guessed that she had been at the meeting in Keighley the night before. The crowd became thicker and she was soon in the midst of it. She would have been stared at in any case, for strangers were rare in Haworth. Tourists came for an hour to visit the Brontë Museum, and hastened off to catch their train. And Julia was fair to look upon and exceeding well dressed. The girls turned to look after her with approval, and when she made her way out of what would seem to be a large family party gossiping pleasantly, and, wandering off, stooped once more, a girl followed and asked her shyly if she were looking for white heather.
“Oh,” said Julia, “would you help me? I should like a spray for luck, and as a memento of your village.”
“It’s hard to find, miss, but we can look. I’ve found many a bit.”
They strayed off together, Julia good-naturedly answering the eager questions. Suddenly the girl turned.
“Why!” she exclaimed. “They’re all coming this way, and that excited!”
Julia looked and saw that the whole company was streaming toward her. They paused, held a hurried conference, and then one of the younger women came directly up to the stranger.
“We are thinking,” she said diffidently, “that you may be Mrs. France, who spoke last night at Keighley, and has been speaking all over the north.”
“Yes, I am Mrs. France,” said Julia, wondering what was coming.
“And you really are a suffragette?”
“That is what they call us.”