With outward patience and inward wonder, Florence Hunter was remaining at Dr. Bevary's. That something must be wrong at home, she felt sure: else why was she kept away from it so long? And where was her uncle? Invalids were shut up in the waiting-room, like Patience on a monument, hoping minute by minute to see him appear. And now here was another, she supposed! No. He had passed the patients' room and was opening the door of this. Austin Clay!

'What have you come for?' she exclaimed, in the glad confusion of the moment.

'To take you home, for one thing,' he answered, as he approached her. 'Do you dislike the escort, Florence?' He bent forward as he asked the question. A strange light of happiness shone in his eyes; a sweet smile parted his lips. Florence Hunter's heart stood still, and then began to beat as if it would have burst its bounds.

'What has happened?' she faltered.

'This,' he said, taking both her hands and drawing her gently before him. 'The right to hold your hands in mine; the right—soon—to take you to my heart and keep you there for ever. Your father and uncle have sent me to tell you this.'

The words, in their fervent earnestness carried instant truth to her heart, lighting it as with the brightness of sunshine. 'Oh, what a recompense!' she impulsively murmured from the depths of her great love. 'And everything lately has seemed so dark with doubt, so full of trouble!'

'No more doubt, no more trouble,' he fondly whispered. 'It shall be my life's care to guard my wife from all such, Florence—heaven permitting me.' Anything more that was said may as well be left to the reader's lively imagination. They arrived at home after awhile; and found Dr. Bevary there, talking still.

'How you must have hurried yourselves!' quoth he, turning to them. 'Clay, you ought to be ill from walking fast. What has kept him, Florence?'

'Not your patients, Doctor,' retorted Austin, laughing; 'though you are keeping them. One of them says you made an appointment with him. By the way he spoke, I think he was inwardly vowing vengeance against you for not keeping it.'

'Ah,' said the Doctor, 'we medical men do get detained sometimes. One patient has had the most of my time this day, poor lady!'

'Is she better?' quickly asked Florence, who always had ready sympathy for sickness and suffering: perhaps from having seen so much of it in her mother.

'No, my dear, she is dead,' was the answer, gravely spoken. 'And, therefore,' added the doctor in a different tone, 'I have no further excuse for absenting myself from those other patients who are alive and grumbling at me. Will you walk a few steps with me, Mr. Clay?'

Dr. Bevary linked his arm within Austin's as they crossed the hall, and they went out together. 'How did you become acquainted with that dark secret' he breathed.

'Through a misdirected letter of Miss Gwinn's,' replied Austin. 'After I had read it, I discovered that it must have been meant for Mr. Hunter, though addressed to me. It told me all. Dr. Bevary, I have had to carry the secret all these years, bearing myself as one innocent of the knowledge; before Mrs. Hunter, before Florence, before him. I would have given half my savings not to have known it.'

'You believed that—that—one was living who might have replaced Mrs. Hunter?'

'Yes; and that she was in confinement. The letter, a reproachful one, was too explanatory.'

'She died this morning. It is with her—at least with her and her affairs—that my day has been taken up.'

'What a mercy!' ejaculated Austin.

'Ay; mercies are showered down every day: a vast many more than we, self-complaisant mortals, acknowledge or return thanks for,' responded Dr. Bevary, in the quaint tone he was fond of using. And then, in a few brief words, he enlightened Austin as to the actual truth.

'What a fiend she must be!' cried Austin, alluding to Miss Gwinn of Ketterford. 'Oh, but this is a mercy indeed! And I have been planning how to guard the secret always from Florence.' Dr. Bevary made no reply. Austin turned to him, the ingenuous look upon his face that it often wore. 'You approve of me for Florence? Do you not, sir?'

'Be you very sure, young gentleman, that you should never have got her, had I not approved,' oracularly nodded Dr. Bevary. 'I look upon Florence as part of my belongings; and, if you mind what you are about, perhaps I may look upon you as the same.'

Austin laughed. 'How am I to avoid offence?' he asked.—'By loving your wife with an earnest, lasting love; by making her a better husband than James Hunter has been enabled to make her poor mother.'

The tears rose to Austin's eyes with the intensity of his emotion. 'Do you think there is cause to ask me to do this, Dr. Bevary?'

'No, my boy, I do not. God bless you both! There! leave me to get home to those patients of mine. You can be off back to her.'

But Austin Clay had work on his hands, as well as pleasure, and he turned towards Daffodil's Delight. It was the evening for taking Baxendale his week's money, and Austin was not one to neglect it. He picked his way down amidst the poor people, standing about hungry and half-naked. All the works were open again, but numbers and numbers of men could not obtain employment, however good their will was: the masters had taken on strangers, and there was no room for the old workmen. John Baxendale was sitting by his bedside dressed. His injuries were yielding to skill and time: and in a short while he looked to be at work again.

'Well, Baxendale?' cried Austin, in his cheery voice. 'Still getting better?'

'Oh yes, sir, I'm thankful to say it. The surgeon was here to-day, and told me there would be no further relapse. I am a bit tired this evening; I stood a good while at the window, watching the row opposite. She was giving him such a basting.'

'What! do you mean the Cheeks? I thought the street seemed in a commotion.'

Baxendale laughed. 'It is but just over, sir. She set on and shook him soundly, and then she scratched him, and then she cuffed him—all outside the door. I do wonder that Cheek took it from her; but he's just like a puppy in her hands, and nothing better. Two good hours they were disputing there.'

'What was the warfare about?' inquired Austin.

'About his not getting work, sir. Cheek's wife was just like many of the other wives in Daffodil's Delight—urging their husbands not to go to work, and vowing they'd strike if they didn't stand out. I don't know but Mother Cheek was about the most obstinate of all. The very day that I was struck down I heard her blowing him up for not "standing firm upon his rights;" and telling him she'd rather go to his hanging than see him go back to work. And now she beats him because he can't get any to do.'

'Is Cheek one that cannot get any?'

'Cheek's one, sir. Mr. Henry took on more strangers than did you and Mr. Hunter; so, of course, there's less room for his old men. Cheek has walked about London these two days, till he's foot-sore, trying different shops, but he can't get taken on: there are too many men out, for him to have a chance.'

'I think some of the wives in Daffodil's Delight are the most unreasonable women that ever were created,' ejaculated Austin.

'She is—that wife of Cheek's,' rejoined Baxendale. 'I don't know how they'll end it. She has shut the door in his face, vowing he shall not put a foot inside it until he can bring some wages with him. Forbidding him to take work when it was to be had, and now that it can't be had turning upon him for not getting it! If Cheek wasn't a donkey, he'd turn upon her again. There's other women just as contradictory. I think the bad living has soured their tempers.'

'Where's Mary this evening?' inquired Austin, quitting the unsatisfactory topic. Since her father's illness, Mary's place had been by his side: it was something unusual to find her absent. Baxendale lowered his voice to reply.

'She is getting ill again, sir. All her old symptoms have come back, and I am sure now that she is going fast. She is on her bed, lying down.'

As he spoke the last word, he stopped, for Mary entered. She seemed scarcely able to walk; a hectic flush shone on her cheeks, and her breath was painfully short. 'Mary,' Austin said, with much concern, 'I am sorry to see you thus.'

'It is only the old illness come back again, sir,' she answered, as she sunk back in the pillowed chair. 'I knew it had not gone for good—that the improvement was but temporary. But now, sir, look how good and merciful is the hand that guides us—and yet we sometimes doubt it! What should I have been spared for, and had this returning glimpse of strength, but that I might nurse my father in his illness, and be a comfort to him? He is nearly well—will soon be at work again and wants me no more. Thanks ever be to God!'

Austin went out, marvelling at the girl's simple and beautiful trust. It appeared that she would be happy in her removal whenever it should come. As he was passing up the street he met Dr. Bevary. Austin wondered what had become of his patients.

'All had gone away but two; tired of waiting,' said the Doctor, divining his thoughts. 'I am going to take a look at Mary Baxendale. I hear she is worse.'

'Very much worse,' replied Austin. 'I have just left her father.' At that moment there was a sound of contention and scolding, a woman's sharp tongue being uppermost. It proceeded from Mrs. Cheek, who was renewing the contest with her husband. Austin gave Dr. Bevary an outline of what Baxendale had said.

'And if, after a short season of prosperity, another strike should come, these women would be the first again to urge the men on to it—to "stand up for their rights!"' exclaimed the Doctor.

'Not all of them.'

'They have not all done it now. Mark you, Austin! I shall settle a certain sum upon Florence when she marries, just to keep you in bread and cheese, should these strikes become the order of the day, and you get engulfed in them.'

Austin smiled. 'I think I can take better care than that, Doctor.'

'Take all the care you please. But you are talking self-sufficient nonsense, my young friend. I shall put Florence on the safe side, in spite of your care. I have no fancy to see her reduced to one maid and a cotton gown. You can tell her so,' added the Doctor, as he continued on his way.

Austin turned on his, when a man stole up to him from some side entry—a cadaverous-looking man, pinched and careworn. It was James Dunn; he had been discharged out of prison by the charity of some fund at the disposal of the governor. He humbly begged for work—'just to keep him from starving.'

'You ask what I have not to give, Dunn,' was the reply of Austin. 'Our yard is full; and consider the season! Perhaps when spring comes on——'

'How am I to exist till spring, sir?' he burst forth in a voice that was but just kept from tears. 'And the wife and the children?'

'I wish I could help you, Dunn. Your case is but that of many others.'

'There have been so many strangers took on, sir!'

'Of course there have been. To do the work that you and others refused.'

'I have not a place to lay my head in this night, sir. I have not so much as a slice of bread. I'd do the meanest work that could be offered to me.'

Austin felt in his pocket for a piece of money, and gave it him. 'What misery they have brought upon themselves!' he thought.

When the announcement reached Mrs. Henry Hunter of Florence's engagement, she did not approve of it. Not that she had any objection to Austin Clay; he had from the first been a favourite with her, though she had sometimes marked her preference by a somewhat patronizing manner; but for Florence to marry her father's clerk, though that clerk had now become partner, was more than she could at the first moment quietly yield to.

'It is quite a descent for her,' she said to her husband privately. 'What can James be thinking of? The very idea of her marrying Austin Clay!'

'But if she likes him?'

'That ought not to go for anything. Suppose it had been Mary? I would not have let her have him.'

'I would,' decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter. 'Clay's worth his weight in gold.'

Some short while given to preliminaries, and to the re-establishment (in a degree) of Mr. Hunter's shattered health, and the new firm 'Hunter and Clay' was duly announced to the business world. Upon an appointed day, Mr. Hunter stood before his workmen, his arm within Austin's. He was introducing him to them in his new capacity of partner. The strike was quite at an end, and the men—so many as could be made room for—had returned; but Mr. Hunter would not consent to discharge the hands that had come forward to take work during the emergency.

'What has the strike brought you?' inquired Mr. Hunter, seizing upon the occasion to offer a word of advice. 'Any good?' Strictly speaking, the men could not reply that it had. In the silence that ensued after the question, one man's voice was at length raised. 'We look back upon it as a subject of congratulation, sir.'

'Congratulation!' exclaimed Mr. Hunter. 'Upon what point?'

'That we have had the pluck to hold out so long in the teeth of difficulties,' replied the voice.

'Pluck is a good quality when rightly applied,' observed Mr. Hunter. 'But what good has the "pluck," or the strike, brought to you in this case?—for that was the question we were upon.'

'It was a lock-out, sir; not a strike.'

'In the first instance it was a strike,' said Mr. Hunter. 'Pollocks' men struck, and you had it in contemplation to follow their example. Oh, yes! you had, my men; you know as well as I do, that the measure was under discussion. Upon that state of affairs becoming known, the masters determined upon a general lock-out. They did it in self-defence; and if you will put yourselves in thought into their places, judging fairly, you will not wonder that it was considered the only course open to them. The lock-out lasted but a short period, and then the yards were again opened—open to all who would resume work upon the old terms, and sign a declaration not to be under the dominion of the Trades' Unions. How very few availed themselves of this you do not need to be reminded.'

'We acted for what we thought the best,' said another.

'I know you did,' replied Mr. Hunter. 'You are—speaking of you collectively—steady, hard-working, well-meaning men, who wish to do the best for yourselves, your wives, and families. But, looking back now, do you consider that it was for the best? You have returned to work upon the same terms that you were offered then. Here we are, in the depth of winter, and what sort of homes do you possess to fortify yourselves against its severities!' What sort indeed! Mr. Hunter's delicacy shrank from depicting them. 'I am not speaking to you now as your master,' he continued, conscious that men do not like this style of converse from their employers. 'Consider me for the moment as your friend only; let us talk together as man and man. I wish I could bring you to see the evil of these convulsions; I do not wish it from motives of self-interest, but for your sole good. You may be thinking, "Ah, the master is afraid of another contest; this one has done him so much damage, and that's why he is going on at us against them." You are mistaken; that is not why I speak. My men, were any further contests to take place between us, in which you held yourselves aloof from work, as you have done in this, we should at once place ourselves beyond dependence upon you, by bringing over foreign workmen. In the consultations which have been held between myself and Mr. Clay, relative to the terms of our partnership, this point has been fully discussed, and our determination taken. Should we have a repetition of the past, Hunter and Clay would then import their own workmen.'

'And other firms as well?' interrupted a voice.

'We know nothing of what other firms might do: to attend to our own interests is enough for us. I hope we shall never have to do this; but it is only fair to inform you that such would be our course of action. If you, our native workmen, brothers of the soil, abandon your work from any crotchets——'

'Crotchets, sir!'

'Ay, crotchets—according to my opinion,' repeated Mr. Hunter. 'Could you show me a real grievance, it might be a different matter. But let us leave motives alone, and go to effects. When I say that I wish you could see the evil of these convulsions, I speak solely with reference to your good, to the well-being of your families. It cannot have escaped your notice that my health has become greatly shattered—that, in all probability, my life will not be much prolonged. My friends'—his voice sunk to a deep, solemn tone—'believing, as I do, that I shall soon stand before my Maker, to give an account of my doings here, could I, from any paltry motive of self-interest, deceive you? Could I say one thing and mean another? No; when I seek to warn you against future troubles, I do it for your own sakes. Whatever may be the urging motive of a strike, whether good or bad, it can only bring ill in the working. I would say, were I not a master, "Put up with a grievance, rather than enter upon a strike;" but being a master, you might misconstrue the advice. I am not going into the merits of the measures—to say this past strike was right, or that was wrong; I speak only of the terrible amount of suffering they wrought. A man said to me the other day—he was from the factory districts—"I have a horror of strikes, they have worked so much evil in our trade." You can get books which tell of them, and read for yourselves. How many orphans, and widows, and men in prisons are there, who have cause to rue this strike that has only now just passed? It has broken up homes that, before it came, were homes of plenty and content, leaving in them despair and death. Let us try to go on better for the future. I, for my part, will always be ready to receive and consider any reasonable proposal from my men; my partner will do the same. If there is no attempt at intimidation, and no interference on the part of others, there ought to be little difficulty in discussing and settling matters, with the help of "the golden rule." Only—it is my last and earnest word of caution to you—abide by your own good sense, and do not yield it to those agitators who would lead you away.'

Every syllable spoken by Mr. Hunter, as to the social state of the people, Daffodil's Delight, and all other parts of London where the strike had prevailed, could echo. Whether the men had invoked the contest needlessly, or whether they were justified, according to the laws of right and reason, it matters not here to discuss; the effects were the same, and they stood out broad, and bare, and hideous. Men had died of want; had been cast into prison, where they still lay; had committed social crimes, in their great need, against their fellow-men. Women had been reduced to the lowest extremes of misery and suffering, had been transformed into viragos, where they once had been pleasant and peaceful; children had died off by scores. Homes were dismantled; Mr. Cox had cart-loads of things that stood no chance of being recalled. Families, united before, were scattered now; young men were driven upon idleness and evil courses; young women upon worse, for they were irredeemable. Would wisdom for the future be learnt by all this? It was uncertain.

When Austin Clay returned home that evening, he gave Mrs. Quale notice to quit. She received it in a spirit of resignation, intimating that she had been expecting it—that lodgings such as hers were not fit for Mr. Clay, now that he was Mr. Hunter's partner.

Austin laughed. 'I suppose you think I ought to set up a house of my own.'

'I daresay you'll be doing that one of these days, sir,' she responded.

'I daresay I shall,' said Austin.

'I wonder whether what Mr. Hunter said to-day will do any of 'em any service?' interposed Peter Quale. 'What do you think, sir?'

'I think it ought,' replied Austin. 'Whether it will, is another question.'

'It mostly lies in this—in the men's being let alone,' nodded Peter. 'Leave 'em to theirselves, and they'll go on steady enough; but if them Trade Union folks, Sam Shuck and his lot, get over them again, there'll be more outbreaks.'

'Sam Shuck is safe for some months to come.'

'But there's others of his persuasion that are not, sir. And Sam, he'll be out some time.'

'Quale, I give the hands credit for better sense than to suffer themselves to fall under his yoke again, now that he has shown himself in his true colours.'

'I don't give 'em credit for any sense at all, when they get unsettled notions into their heads,' phlegmatically returned Peter Quale. 'I'd like to know if it's the Union that's helping Shuck's wife and children.'

'Do they help her?'

'There must be some that help her, sir. The woman lives and feeds her family. But there was a Trades' Union secretary here this morning, inquiring about all this disturbance there has been, and saying that the men were wrong to be led to violence by such a fellow as Sam Shuck: over eager to say it, he seemed to me. I gave him my opinion back again,' concluded Peter, pushing the pipe, which he had laid aside at his young master's entrance, further under the grate. 'That Sam Shuck, and such as he, that live by agitation, were uncommon 'cute for their own interests, and those that listen to them were fools. That took him off, sir.'

'To think of the fools this Daffodil's Delight has turned out this last six months!' Mrs. Quale emphatically added. 'To have lived upon their clothes and furniture, their saucepans and kettles, their bedding and their children's shoes; when they might, most of 'em, have earned thirty-three shillings a week at their ordinary work! When folks can be so blind as that, it is of no use talking to them: black looks white, and white black.' Mr. Clay smiled at the remark, though it had some rough reason in it, and went out. Taking his way to Mr. Hunter's.

'Austin! You must live with me.'

The words came from Mr. Hunter. Seated in his easy chair, apparently asleep, he had overheard what Austin was saying in an undertone to Florence—that he had just been giving Mrs. Quale notice, and should begin house-hunting on the morrow. They turned to him at the remark. He had half risen from his chair in his eager earnestness.

'Do you think I could spare Florence? Where my home is, yours and hers must be. Is not this house large enough for us? Why should you seek another?'

'Quite large enough, sir. But—but I had not thought of it. It shall be as you and Florence wish.'

They both looked at her; she was standing underneath the light of the chandelier, the rich damask colour mantling in her cheeks.

'I could not give you to him, Florence, if it involved your leaving me.'

The tears glistened on her eyelashes. In the impulse of the moment she stretched out a hand to each. 'There is room here for us all, papa,' she softly whispered.

Mr. Hunter took both their hands in one of his; he raised the other in the act of benediction; the tears, which only glistened in the eyes of Florence, were falling fast from his own.

'Yes, it shall be the home of all; and—Florence!—the sooner he comes to it the better. Bless, oh, bless my children!' he murmured. 'And grant that this may prove a happier, a more peaceful home for them, than it has for me!'

'Amen!' answered Austin, in his inmost heart.

THE END.

J. OGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.