MARSTEN made no move to communicate with Sart-well. If the manager expected the young man to propose a compromise, he was disappointed; and when he heard Marsten had been elected secretary of the Union, he smiled grimly, but made no comment. It was to be war to the knife, and Sartwell always admired an able antagonist. He made no motion against the Union, although at that time he could probably have forced seventy-five per cent of his employees to withdraw from it, had he been so minded. Marsten gave him due credit for declining to use the weapon of coercion against the men, knowing Sartwell too well to believe that the thought had not occurred to him. Yet there was little of the spirit of Christian forgiveness about the manager, as his wife had with truth often pointed out to him: he pursued an enemy to the bitter end. Gibbons metaphorically prostrated himself before Sartwell, and begged for the place in the works from which Marsten had been ejected. He was starving, he said. Sartwell replied that he was glad to hear it, and hoped Gibbons would now appreciate the sufferings of the men he had so jauntily led astray; so Gibbons had again humiliated himself for nothing.

To do Sartwell justice, however, it must be admitted that the attempted management of Marsten had slipped out of his hands in a way he had never anticipated. He did not dislike the young man; in truth, quite the opposite: still, he had higher ambitions for his only daughter than to see her marry one of his own workmen. The incident of finding Marsten with Edna in the garden had disturbed him more than he cared to admit, even to himself. If this persistent young fellow managed, when half starved, in the turmoil of the strike, to attend so successfully to his love affair, what might not happen when he was at peace with the world and had money in his pocket? Sartwell could have forbidden his daughter to see Marsten, and doubtless she would have obeyed; but he was loath to pique her curiosity regarding the reason for the prohibition, and he could not baldly tell her the young man craved permission to pay his addresses to her: that might set her fancy afire, with disastrous results to her father’s hopes. Sartwell only half expected Marsten would appeal to him against his discharge; but he knew that before the young fellow got another situation he must refer his new masters to his old manager, and, when that time came, or if Marsten made a move on his own account, Sartwell stood ready to make terms with him. If Marsten promised not to see the girl for two years, the manager would reinstate him, or would help him to secure another place.

All these plans went to pieces when the men unexpectedly chose Marsten as secretary of their Union. It was a contingency the manager had not counted upon, but he faced the new position of affairs without a murmur against fate.

Marsten thought his dismissal harsh and unjust, but he felt that it freed him from all consideration towards Sartwell. He now determined to meet the girl whenever and wherever he could; so, with this purpose strong in his heart, he went to Wimbledon, boldly presented himself at the front door, and asked to see Miss Sartwell. He knew her father did not dare tell her the true state of the case, and, if it came to that, permission to visit the house had already been given in Edna’s own presence,—a permission which her father had probably not withdrawn when Marsten left them together in the garden, as such withdrawal would necessitate explanations which Sartwell would not believe it wise to make. Therefore, the young man resolved to see the girl, tell her frankly why he came, and plead his cause with her. Even if she refused to listen to him, he would at least cause her to think of him, and that of itself was worth risking something for.

The servant, on opening the door, recognized Mar-sten as the young man who on a former occasion did not know his own mind, and she promptly said to him: “Mr. Sartwell is not at home.”

“I wish to see Miss Sartwell.”

“The young lady is not at home either.”

“Will she return soon?”

“I don’t know. Miss Edna’s gone away.”

“Gone away?” echoed Marsten, visibly perturbed at this unexpected check in his advance.

The servant saw she was face to face with another case of mental indecision; so she promptly grappled with the situation by calling Mrs. Sartwell, who was in the dining-room: then, turning the embarrassed young man over to her mistress, she closed the door and returned to the more important work which Mars-ten’s knock had interrupted.

“You wished to see Miss Sartwell?” began the lady, icily. “Why?”

It was not an easy question to answer, when suddenly asked by an utter stranger.

“Well, I can scarcely tell you, Mrs. Sartwell,” stammered the young man, extremely ill at ease. “It is entirely a personal matter. I wished to have a few words with Miss Sartwell; that is all.”

The lady sat bolt upright, with a look of great severity on her face. There was mystery here which she resolved to unravel before she allowed the unfortunate young man to depart. He speedily came to the conclusion that he had in the lady before him an implacable enemy, more to be feared, perhaps, than Sartwell himself. Each question shot at him led him deeper and deeper into the tangle.

“You are her lover, I suppose?”

“No. That is—I really can’t explain, Mrs. Sart-well.”

“Very well; I shall ask my husband when he returns to-night. He knows nothing of this, of course?”

“Yes, he does.”

“He knows you are here?”

“He doesn’t know I am here to-day. He knows I love his daughter.”

“I thought you said you were not her lover. Young man, whatever else you do, speak the truth. All our earthly troubles come from shunning the truth, and from overweening pride. Avoid pride, and avoid falsehood. What did you mean when you told me just now that you were not Miss Sartwell’s lover? I beseech you to speak the truth.”

“I’m trying to, but you see it is rather difficult to talk about this with a third person, and——”

“I am not a third person. I am her step-mother, and responsible to a higher power for what I do regarding Edna. I must have full knowledge, and then trust to the guiding light from above. We are ever prone to err when we rely on our own puny efforts. Does Edna Sartwell know you love her?”

“No.”

“And her father does?”

“Yes. I told him.”

“Then I wonder he did not forbid you to see her.”

“He did.”

“Are you one of his workmen?”

“Yes. At least I was.”

“Are you not now?”

“No.”

“He has discharged you?”

“I have been discharged.”

The stern look faded from Mrs. Sartwell’s face. She drew a deep breath—a prolonged “Ah,” with what might be taken as a quiver of profound satisfaction in it—and, for the first time during the conference, leaned back comfortably in her chair.

“My poor boy!” she said at last, gazing compassionately at him. “Do you mean to say, then, that you would risk your whole future for a girl to whom you have never spoken?”

“Oh, I have spoken with her, Mrs. Sartwell. I said I had never spoken about—that she doesn’t know I care anything for her.”

“But you know absolutely nothing about her disposition—her temper.”

“I’d chance it.”

Mrs. Sartwell shook her head mournfully.

“How well you reflect the spirit of this scoffing age! People chance everything. Nothing is so important to a man as the solemn, prayerful choice of a wife, for on that choice rests the misery or the happiness of this life. A woman’s great duty—at least it seems so to my poor judgment—is to bring light, comfort, and joy, to her husband’s home. Do you think Edna Sartwell is fitted by temperament or education for this noble task?”

“She’d make me happy, if that’s what you mean.”

“How little, how little you know her! But then, you know her father, and she’s very like him. Of course, he will never permit you to marry her, if he can prevent it. You are a workingman, and he has no thought or sympathy for those from whose ranks he sprang. He has higher ideas for his daughter; I have long seen that. It is pride, pride, pride! Oh, it will have a terrible fall some day, and perhaps you, poor lad, who talk of chance, are the humble instrument selected by an overruling Providence to bring about the humbling of his pride, without which none of us can enter the Kingdom! I see it all now. I see why he sent Edna to school at Eastbourne, although he said it was because we could not get on together. How little prevarication avails! The deceiver shall himself be deceived! In your seemingly chance meeting with me I see the Hand pointing towards truth. Still,” continued Mrs. Sartwell reflectively, as though speaking more to herself than to her hearer, “there is no doubt that, if you took Edna’s fancy, she would marry you in spite of her father or any one else. I have long warned her father that such a time is coming; but alas! my words are unheeded in this house, and the time has come sooner than I expected. I have wondered for some weeks past what was in Edna’s mind. I thought that perhaps she was thinking of Barnard Hope, but I see now I was mistaken. No, she was very likely thinking of you, and her father, discovering it, has packed her off to High Cliff School at Eastbourne, where he probably hopes you cannot visit her. She is a wayward, obstinate child, impulsive, and difficult to manage. She thinks her father is perfection, so you may form your own opinion of how defective her judgment is. Yes, I should not be at all surprised if, when you tell her you love her, she would at once propose to run away with you. Nothing Edna Sartwell would do or say could surprise me.”

Marsten, who had been very uneasy while a forced listener to this exposition of the girl’s character, now rose abruptly, and said he must leave; he had already, he said, taken up too much of Mrs. Sartwell’s time.

“Our time is given us,” replied the good woman, also rising, “to make the best use of, and if we remember that we must give an account of every moment allotted to us, we will not count that time ill-spent which is devoted to the welfare of others. I sincerely trust that what I have said will sink deeply into your mind, and that you will profit by it.”

“I shall not fail to do so.”

“You will understand why I cannot give you any information about Miss Sartwell, or arrange for any meeting between you. It would not be right. If she were now in the house, I could not permit you to see her, since I know you come without her father’s permission. I hope you do not think me harsh in saying this.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“And whatever comes of your infatuation for her, will you do me the justice to remember that my last words to you were to implore you to cast all thought of her from your mind?”

“I shall remember it,” said Marsten.

“If you attempt to meet her, you know you will be doing so against my strict wish and command.”

“You certainly will not be to blame for anything that happens, Mrs. Sartwell.”

“Ah, if I could only be sure of that!” said the patient woman, mournfully shaking her head. “But blame is so easily bestowed, and it shifts responsibility from shoulders certainly more fitted to bear it, and perhaps more deserving. No later ago than yesterday, Mr. Barnard Hope came here, and was surprised to find Edna gone. He told me he came to see me, but he could not help noticing how still and peaceful the house was. When he asked where Edna was, I replied to him as I reply to you. Her father is the proper person to answer that question. Yet Mr. Hope is the son of my best friend, a noble woman, whose benefactions shower blessings far and near. Well, good-by, and I’m sorry not to be able to assist you; but I shall remember you in my petitions, and will trust that your feet may be guided aright.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sartwell, and good-by.”

As the young man walked away he kept repeating to himself, “High Cliff School, Eastbourne”; and when he got a sufficient distance from the house he wrote the name down on a slip of paper.