Again it was the last train to Wimbledon; but Sartwell, tired as he was, strode home from the station with the springy step of a young man. Edna, waiting for her father in spite of his prohibition, heard the step with a thrill of hope. When he came in, there was a smile on his face such as she had not seen for weeks.

“Ah, my girl,” he cried, “you can never guess what has happened!”

“Yes, I can,” she answered; “Marsten has ended the strike.”

“No, the strike has ended Marsten. He has been deposed, and Gibbons has been elected in his place. Gibbons, unselfish man, at once came to me to make terms for himself. So the works will be open to-morrow; and when the next strike comes, let us hope, unlike John Gilpin, I won’t be there to see.”

“And what does Mr. Marsten say to this sudden change?”

“I didn’t see him. I suppose he has gone to his room to meditate on the mutability of the workingman.”

“I am glad you didn’t send that letter.”

“Ah, but the funny thing about it is that I did send it. My commissionaire is probably at this moment scouring London to find Marsten and get it back. It would be rather a turning of the tables if Marsten, in revenge, were to publish the letter. I don’t think he will do it, but one can never tell. I confess it would be a strong temptation to me, were I in his place; however, I hope for the best, and have charged the commissionaire to get him to do nothing about it until after he has seen me.”

“Do you still intend to offer him a place in the works?”

“That will depend. If his experience has driven all the visionary nonsense about the regeneration of the workingman out of his head, he will be a most valuable man for any firm to have in its service. I will see how the land lies when I talk with him.”

“You have no feeling against him then, father?”

“None in the least. Just the opposite. I have the greatest admiration for the way he conducted the fight.”

“You will not resign, will you?”

Sartwell laughed.

“I think not. There will be a lot to do, and I shall want to be in the thick of it. No, our Continental trip is postponed, Edna. Why, my girl, you’ve been crying, all alone here by yourself! Tut, tut, Edna, that will never do! I thought you had more courage than myself—not that I’ve had any too much these last few days. Go to bed, girlie, and have a good sleep. I want to be off early in the morning, so you may have the privilege of being my sole companion at breakfast. Good-night, my dear,” he added, kissing her, “and here’s luck to all our future battles!”

Edna was the first afoot in the morning, and the night’s sleep, short as it was, had smoothed away all traces of the emotion of the night before. Youth has a glorious recuperative power, and Sartwell, when a little later he came wearily down the stair, showed that sleep had not dipped him in the fountain of it. Even the conqueror has to pay some tribute for the victory. He seemed tired as he took his place at the breakfast-table and unfolded the morning paper. Years of not too congenial married life had developed in him the reprehensible habit of reading his paper while he sipped his coffee, and not even the presence of his daughter opposite him could break him of the vice; although he had the grace to apologize, which he sometimes forgot to do when his wife was pouring the coffee.

“I just want to see if the paper has anything to say about the ending of the strike, my dear.”

She smiled at him, and asked him to read what the paper said. A moment later she was startled by an exclamation from him.

“Good heavens!” he cried. “I had no idea of this! There seems to have been a riot at the meeting—five men arrested, and two in the hospital—Marsten—by Jove!—trampled under foot—never regained consciousness—life in grave danger! I say, Edna, this is serious!”

There was no reply, and Sartwell, looking up, saw Edna, standing with pallid cheeks and lips parted, swaying slightly from side to side.

He sprang up, and supported her with his arm.

“My girl, my little girl!” he cried. “What is the matter? What is this to you?”

Her head sank against his breast, and she said in a quavering whisper, broken by a sob:

“It is everything to me, father, everything!”

He patted her affectionately on the shoulder.

“Is it so, my darling, is it so? I was afraid once that was the case, but I thought you had forgotten. There, don’t cry; it is sure to be all right. The papers generally exaggerate these things. Come, let us have breakfast, and we will both go to the hospital together.”

Edna’s desire for breakfast was gone, but she made a pretense of eating and then hurried to get ready and accompany her father. It was so early that they had a first-class compartment to themselves, the travel city-wards not having begun for the day.

Edna was silent, and nothing had been said from the house to the station. When they were in the train, her father spoke with some hesitation.

“Edna, have you seen Marsten since the time when I found you together in the garden?”

“Yes, father; twice.”

“I don’t want you to answer, my dear, unless you care to do so. Where did you meet him?”

“I will tell you everything; I was willing to tell you any time——if you had asked me. I didn’t speak of him to you because——I didn’t like to.”

“Of course, girlie. I understand. You needn’t speak now, if you would rather not.”

“I should like you to know. The first time was at Eastbourne, shortly after I went there. He managed to get unseen into the school garden, and he told me that——he said he hoped——we would be married some day. I told him it was impossible. I thought so——then.”

“That was two years ago?”

“Yes.”

The ghost of a smile hovered about the firm lips of Sartwell; but the corners of Edna’s mouth drooped pathetically, and she seemed on the verge of tears. She kept her eyes on the floor of the carriage.

“There was not much use of an angry father’s precautions, was there, Edna?”

“I did not know, until he spoke, that you objected to my meeting him. If you had told me, I would not have spoken to him at Eastbourne.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, my dear. Don’t think I am blaming you in the least. I was merely thinking that I am not nearly as far-seeing as I thought. And the second time, Edna?”

“That was last night. I drove to the Salvation Hall and asked him to stop the strike. I told him——-”

Edna began to cry afresh. Her father, who had been sitting opposite her, crossed to her side, and put his arm about her.

“Don’t say another word, my dear, and don’t think about it. I’ll not ask you another question. You mustn’t make people think you have been crying. They will imagine I have been scolding you, and thus you will destroy my well-won reputation for being the mildest man in London.”

The girl smiled through her tears, and nothing more was said until they reached the hospital door.

“How is Marsten, who was brought here last night?” inquired Sartwell, of the doctor who received him.

“Oh, getting on very well, under the circumstances.”

“The papers say his condition is dangerous.”

“I don’t anticipate any danger, unless there are internal injuries that we know nothing of. Some of his ribs are broken, and he got a nasty blow on the back of his head. He seems rather weak and dispirited this morning, but his mind is clear. I was somewhat anxious about that, for he was a long time unconscious.”

“There,” said Sartwell to his daughter, who stood with parted lips listening intently to what the doctor said. “I told you the papers made the case out worse than it was. Might we see Mr. Marsten?”

“Yes; but I wouldn’t make him talk very much, if I were you.”

“We shall be very careful. I think, you know, it will cheer him up to see us, but you might ask him if he would rather we came another time. My name is Sartwell.”

Word was brought back that Marsten would be glad to see them. They found him in an alcove, curtained off, like other alcoves, from the rest of the ward. His face was not disfigured, but was very pale. He cast one rapid glance at the girl, shrinking back behind her father, then kept his gaze fixed on his old employer.

“Well, my boy,” said Sartwell, cheerily, “I’m sorry to see you on your back, but I’m glad to learn from the doctor that you will be all right in a few days.”

“Have the men——have they——gone back?” Marsten asked, in a faint whisper.

“Don’t bother about the men. I’m looking after them. Yes, they’ve come back.”

Marsten tried feebly to lift his head, but it sank back again.

“The letter,” he whispered, “what is left of it——is under the pillow, I think.”

Sartwell put his hand under the pillow and pulled forth the tattered document.

“You intend me to have this?”

Marsten, with a faint motion of his head, signified his assent, and Sartwell, with some relief, placed it in his pocket.

“Now, my lad, you must hurry up and get well. There will be stirring times at the works, and I shall need the best help I can get. I’m depending on you to be my assistant, you know.”

The young man’s eyelids quivered for a moment, then closed over his eyes. Two tears stole out from the corners and rolled down his cheeks. His throat rose and fell.

“I’m a bit shattered,” he whispered at last. “I’m not quite myself——but, I thank you.”

“That’s all right, my boy. Here’s a young person who can talk to you more like a nurse than I can. I must see about your having a private room and all the comforts of the place while you are here.”

Edna took his hand when her father had left the room. Marsten looked up at her, standing there beside him.

“It came to the same——in the end——didn’t it?” he said, with a faint, wavering smile.

For answer she bent over him and kissed him softly on the lips.

THE END.