“Let me put them on,” she said quickly. “You can never manage it. You know, in the old days, the ladies used to buckle on the armour of their knights,” and she took the shoes from him, pressed him into a chair and knelt before him. “I’m sure no knight ever had a fairer lady,” and he caressed her hair with tender hand. He could feel the head lift proudly. “Nor any lady a braver knight,” she said. “‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more!’” Allan hummed. “But what an imagination you’ve got, Mamie!” “Yes—you know I’m Irish.” “And what a warm, loyal heart!” “That’s Irish, too, isn’t it? And there the armour’s on!” she added, rising. “And now your overcoat, for it’s bitter cold, and this muffler around your neck,” and she tucked the ends in under his coat. “There,” she concluded, buttoning the last button, and raised herself on tip-toe and kissed him. “Good-bye, Allan, and come back to me.” “Good-bye, Mamie; never fear,” and he was off and away. And Mamie, drawing closer about her the shawl she had thrown on when she slipped out of bed, hurried up the stairs and knocked at the door of the room where her parents slept. It was in the back wing of the house, farthest from the street, which accounted for the fact that they had not been awakened by the hurrying feet and excited talk of the ever-increasing crowd running toward the fire. But Mamie’s knock awakened Mary on the instant. “What is it?” she called. “It’s Mamie—the strikers have set the yards on fire and blown up the freight-house—and Allan’s gone!” “Gone!” echoed Mary, and sprang out of bed. “Jack!” she cried. “Wake up!” and she repeated to him what Mamie had just told her. Jack, with never a word, was out of bed and into his clothes, while his wife, with trembling fingers, lighted a lamp and opened the door for Mamie. “How do you know he’s gone?” demanded Mary. “Did you see him?” “Yes,” said the girl, her white face and trembling lips telling of her struggle for self-control. “And you let him go?” “He had to go—it was his place to go.” “She’s right, mother,” broke in Jack. “He had to go. I’m proud of the boy. An’ I’ll see no harm comes to him.” “Thank you, dad,” said Mamie, simply, and kissed him. “You’ll telephone as soon as the danger’s over?” “Yes,” Jack promised; “an’ don’t be worried.” They heard the front door slam after him, and the house was still. “I’m going to get dressed,” said Mamie; “then—then if anything happens, we’ll be ready.” She stole away to her room, but she did not proceed immediately to dress. Instead, she slipped down beside her bed and threw her arms forward across it and buried her face in them—and when, five minutes later, she arose, it was with a countenance pale, indeed, but serene and almost smiling.