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Then the lights were put out, and even the great fire in the fireplace was dimmed; a rug was thrown over the crack under the door, and they all sat there—waiting. John Harlow, the deaf man, will never forget that scene. The little splinter of light from the fire revealed the stern old man and his three sons waiting, gun in hand, and the women sitting by the table, knitting mechanically in the dimness—all listening for the coming of the enemy. By the door lay two large dogs, alert and watchful. And Harlow, pulled from a comfortable place in Boston and suddenly made a part of this desperate family quarrel, did not even know what it was all about. He started twice to demand an explanation in the loud, harsh tones of the deaf, but the older man quickly waved him to silence.

How long they sat in that dim light Harlow cannot tell. He never thought to look at his watch. Suddenly the dogs lying by the door started up with low growls and bristling hair.

“Here they are,” said the old man; “now get ready.”