“Indeed I think so,” squealed a thin, short man with a red nose and a curious habit of wiping his mouth with a yellow handkerchief. “It’s hard enough for the sufferin’ masses to leave hearth, home, and, I may say, family, not to be saddened more’n than is natural with these funereal suggestions.” “Well,” shouted a sturdy arrival on the other limit of the circle; “Let’s tear them down. The quickest way to cure trouble is to git rid of it. It’s rotten insultin’ to stick those weeds under our noses.” Under the influence of these defiant words the knot of men moved towards the objectionable drapery with evidently unfriendly intentions. But they had not been unobserved from the inside of the house on whose front these sad reminders hung. A window shot up and a tall slender woman advanced to the edge of the balcony. She was dressed deeply in black, her neck was surrounded by some white crepe stuff, and the sentiment, as Howells has it, of her dress was a pathetic suggestion of bereavement and misfortune. Her hair, yet luxuriant, was plentifully sprinkled with gray; her face had the authorized look of nobility and distinction. She was yet prepossessing, though the crowding years had brought her past middle life. The distinctive impression she made upon Leacraft, as he and Thomsen, somewhat withdrawn, watched the denouement of this street episode, was that of abiding sorrow, patiently borne, and doubtless united in her, with Christian resignation and unsullied piety. A beautiful picture of the English woman, who resolutely lives her earnest life of prayer and self-sacrifice, holding intensely to her heart some fond memory, wreathed in amaranth. And Leacraft, as an Englishman, blessed Providence there were such. The men on the street were a little abashed by the pale face and lofty mien of the lady who had recognized their purpose, and placed herself there to thwart it. She came forward and instantly spoke; her voice was excessively clear, but an underlying mellowness imparted an extreme sweetness to its tones. “My friends you wish these mourning signs taken away. They offend you. But when you know that they express to me the approaching loss of all my friends, you will not, I think, feel so harshly about them. The King, in a week, leaves the shores of England--the evacuation of England begins to-day--and with the King goes the great English nation and this wonderful city with all its memories, with its beauty, its historic power, its incessant interest, our common home for all our lifetimes, will dwindle and dwindle and disappear, lost in arctic snows and ice, at least so they tell us. “But I shall stay. In this house suffering has come to me; it has never left _me_. I shall not leave _it_. I mourn for those who in going away die to English pride, to English love, to English devotion, and”--she leaned out over the sullen men beneath her--“and die to me. These black films are for them.”