"All right," answered Mary. "I'll go. John, you stay in bed. Who is it, Violet?"
"Parker and Deane and Waite and—and Fred Stephens. Oh, m'm, he promised he wouldn't join. On Saturday he promised he wouldn't whatever they did to him."
"Never mind, Violet. I expect it's all right. We all have to do what the others do these days, it seems. You run along and get your clothes on. We may want breakfast earlier."
She dressed with deliberate care. It had come, then. She doubted no longer, and the certainty, after days' suspense, elated her.
John shook off the bed-clothes and thrust his legs out of bed.
"You'd better not come," she said, braiding up her long hair. "I'll see the men. The doctor wouldn't like you to get up so early in the morning."
The dogged look she knew well settled on his face. "I'm coming down," he said.
Together they went to the yard door. Mary kept in the background, standing on the kitchen threshold, her hands behind her clasping at the side post of the door. She watched, in the early sunlight beyond John's dark figure, the ring of hostile faces in the yard.
John spoke first.
"Well, men, what is it?"