She was thinking of her father’s advice not to volunteer information and open doors for the counsel to walk in, and praying that she needn’t do so. The house was filling again, fuller if possible than during the morning session. There was scarcely standing room, and the afternoon sun poured in at the windows until the seats seemed baked and blistered. But those on whose heads and necks it fell did not feel it, or feeling it, did not mind. The crisis was coming,—the hour had struck for which they were waiting and for which many had come from Boston and Worcester and New Bedford. Miss Elithe Hansford was to be sworn. As she heard her name she started violently, it sounded so loud, echoing through the room, repeating itself over and over again and finally floating off until it seemed thousands of miles away, and she wondered if her father could not hear it in Samona and know her time had arrived. A thought of him and a fervent “God help me,” quieted her somewhat, and, rising to her feet, she removed her veil and hat. Why she took off the latter she did not know unless it were the least weight upon her head oppressed her. Her hair had grown rapidly since she came to Oak City and was twisted into a small flat knot in her neck, but clustered around her forehead in short curls. These were wet with the perspiration, which stood in drops on her face. Wiping them off and running her fingers through her hair, she took the place assigned her, a little figure, with hollow eyes and face as white as marble and lips which quivered as she took the oath.