The family streamed in, the boys from their work and the twins from school. Last came Mr. Nesbitt, his tin lunch pail in his hand, his feet dragging with weariness. They talked of the heat, all of them, making it even more oppressive than it was by their inability to escape the thought of it. And Mrs. Nesbitt who knew nothing of salads and iced tea, or such hot weather reliefs stirred the flour for her gravy and set the steaming pot roast before her husband. They ate heavily. Freda tried to keep her mind on what she was doing. She talked to the boys and let Mrs. Nesbitt press more food on her unwilling appetite. It was very unwilling. She did not want to eat. She wanted to sit down and close her eyes and forget food and heat and everything else--except Gregory. Vaguely she was aware of Mr. Nesbitt talking. “It was in the paper and no more stir made of it than if a stray dog was run over by an automobile--shot down they were, martyrs to Ireland.” His voice was oratorical, funereal, heavy with resentment. “Who?” asked Freda. “Fine young Irishmen with the grace of God in their hearts shot down by the hired wastrels of the Tyrants. Gentlemen and patriots.” “What an outrage it is,” she answered. He burst into invective at her sympathy, rolling his mighty syllabled words in denunciation, and his family sat around and listened in agreement yet in amusement. “Come now, pop, you’ll be going back, if you get as hot under your shirt as all that,” said Mike. “It’s too hot for excitement, pa,” Mrs. Nesbitt contributed equably. “Pass him the mustard, do you, Cele.” “I’ll show you a true account of it in _The Irish News_,” said Mr. Nesbitt, to Freda, ignoring his family. He wiped his mouth noisily and abandoned the table, coming back to press into Freda’s hands his _Irish News_, a little out of fold with much handling. “The city papers tell you nothing but lies,” he said, “read this.” To please him, Freda read. She read the account of the shooting of three young men poets and patriots, whose names struck her as familiar. And then she read: “These young martyrs were part of the group who banded together for restoration of the Gaelic tongue to Ireland. They with Seumas, McDermitt and Gregory Macmillan now on tour in this country--” She read it again. It gave her a sense of wonder to come on his name here, his name so secretly dear, in this cold print. And then came more than that. This was Gregory--her Gregory who might have been killed too if he had been there--who might be killed when he returned to Ireland. She didn’t know where he was. Perhaps--perhaps he had heard of this and gone back. Perhaps he had forgotten, forgotten about her--about them. This was so big--