Then she recollected it was Monday night. Her father would be at night-school; he did not usually arrive home till half-past ten. The street-lamp in front of No. 24 revealed the interesting fact that the blinds in the front parlour were drawn. There was no light behind them, but the tiny gas-jet in the hall was burning; she could see its beam through the fanlight. Her heart leaped within her. She felt like a prisoner granted a reprieve.... There were visitors. That seemed certain. Somebody had come to spend the evening, and her mother had “put a light in the front room,” the highest mark of respect known. Now probably they were all having supper in the kitchen. The hall-light, too, pointed to that conclusion, for ever since Mr. Tuppinger took the wrong hat from the hall-stand, and failed to discover his mistake afterwards, Mrs. Weston had made it a rule that the hall should be illuminated when visitors came Catherine knocked at the door.... This was really lucky. With good fortune the lateness of the hour might not be noticed: at any rate the fracas would be postponed. Also there would be a good supper awaiting her.... Cold beetroot; perhaps even stewed prunes and custard.... A strange woman came to the door. Catherine did not know her name, but she recognized her as someone who lived “up the road,” and who used to push in front of her when she was a little girl at the co-operative stores. “Is it Cathie?” said the strange woman. “Yes,” replied Catherine. “Come inside,” answered the strange woman, with peculiar solemnity. Then she went on, like the intoning of a chant: “Your mother is not well ... in fact ... she’s had an accident ... in the street ... in fact ... _do_ come inside ... in fact....” In fact, Mrs. Weston was dead. § 7 Mrs. Weston had been out shopping during the evening. In the crowded part of the High Street she had been knocked down by a bicycle. She had fallen upon her face, but had not apparently received much hurt, for after having a cut attended to at the chemist’s, she went home unattended. But at the very door of her house in Kitchener Road, something went “snap” inside her head; she collapsed and fell all in a heap on the doorstep. She was putting the key in the lock when this happened, and the key was found in the lock when neighbours came to her assistance. They carried her in the front room (where the Collard and Collard piano was) and laid her down on the sofa. She uttered vague scraps of conversation for some moments: then she died....