Evening Star Newspaper, March 27, 1897, Page 23

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1897-24 PAGES. LOMO OMOND sedce sek se) THE MUTA Soe <oprright, Tol BS aN Jae hse seh ced sek se) 224 PA Written for The Evening Star. Conclusion. Chapter XXXVI—Continued. In the morning Edna walked with her fath«r to the station. “Js there to be a meeting of the directors she asked. =. it is called for 5 o'clock this even- “Do think the strike would end if y gave you another week you morally certain it would. There is ight’s meeting of | direct op- | and that | ing whatever hold he ever this com » from next directors’ by that time " meetin, meet- what until the know Ina, you make prope take away a man’s breath woui he dire | inform bility ng back anything that or ir in sts, whatever might be the result to myself; but I can't help w ihe message had gone astray for a day or two.” T am going to the office at o'clock to- right. father.” Sartwell laughed, but in a mirthtes pondent manner. Hadn't . des- the directors your opinion of them? I'm sure it wouldn't be very flattering.~ “You mustn't make fun of me, father. ation is very serious, and I couidn't | of waiting know what 1 me. Beside: night there, and I ng you home with me.” it won't be my last night. ne m like that until you | I shall e owes it to j t | | “It exme to the same im the end.” he said with a faint wavering «mile. | self to retreat in good ore rly retreat i as ¢ verything is come you are ou are; I could But it 1 am sure of that. messag progre: y will su th: ow vas hax backed me > pres- | mn, if it ha they | ave given in long ago. Then I} shall look for you at 6, my dear. Take a | ha he station, and ask the man to 1 the yard of the works. Wait for me in my room if I happen to be absent | whe you come. I shail tell the commis- ok after you.” ched the train come in and turning, she walked toward with a heavy heart. She went house and on the common, uncon- imitating her father, who, when mind, sought its breezy expanse. es she paused, and thouzht of gram to Marsten, asking him er in the old garden at Wimble- e. There she,fancied hers ng to him to put an end to troubled veral feared the anger of her father | ¢ discover what she had don 1 thoug it had been done for his sccur to her that perhi and she had little doubt that man had a true and lasting affecti for her. What, s ked herself, if Mars- ten made conditions? Wouid she be willing to accept a reat favor and grant nothing fm return? What would he think if she tele- | graphed him to come? The answer was obvious, and, in searching her own heart, she for the first time admitted to herself that her reply would be different from what it had been at Eastbourne But when It came to the point, she could not bring herself to the length of send- ing a message. She shrank from playing so dangerous a card; for, if It failed to win the trick, how could she face the after- humiliation? Something in the self-reliant ring of Marsten’s voice, something in ihe dogged determination of his manner, some- thing in the compelling glance of his eye, | warned her that not even to please the! girl he loved would he be untrue to the flag under which he fought—and some- thing in her own heart told her that she herself would think less of him if he did. Yet. if he refused, she could never speak to him again; she was certain of that. Having made an appeal in vain, she could never grant ne of his own, or even listen | to it nought of the pleasure it would | >» have him plead his cause once re, and read his answer in her willing 3 before her lips could speak it; but if ne be ‘fused her when she begged ‘him to} her her the impending humilla- | tion of there could be no more! friendship between them. Edna at last re-| > her home, ting to act, bewildered in mind | and | listened to a the sinfulness of wasting one's | rd or understood | discourst m the girl became more hough she h of the admirab’ ning drew anxious, and impatiently awaited | hat was to take her to London. If expected a telegram from her | . but as none came she knew the sit- | had not changed for the better. y after 6 o'clock her hansom drove vard of the works; the gatekeeper m the wate ‘h for her, and sing them after her. } | nt, deserted air of the huge place | had a most depressing influence on her as! she mounted the stairs that led to her | father's office. He was standing at his | as she entered, entirely alone, and ed round absent-mindedly when hej; oor open. E girl.” he to help pack, after all. “It there must be packing, I am ready to h father.” afraid tha: . “you have come | I'm all there's left to do, Gear. But we re not going to show the white feather, are we? I've just been planning a y little tour on the continent for you and me, where we shall forget, for a | time, that there is such an ugly thing as vike in the whole world. You'll be a s, and I'll be the old dethroned king: ¥S went to the continent, you or a defeat.” artweil's attempt at banter was a gloomy failure. and bh avoided his daughter's eye, pretending to be sorting out some papers. She saw how hard hit he was, and the tears came into her eyes. . directors’ meeting over?" last. They are in there yet, arranging the terms of surrender—or hardly that, for there are no terms. They simply give the all they ask—which, of course, they done a month ago, and saved s bother. I knew how it would be they heard about the ship lying un- in Australia. There was not an of fight left in them, and I felt sure she ounce @ blow dealt so far away would appeal to what litte tmagination any of them has. It seems to them decisive, but, of course, it’s nothing of the kind. It is merely a theatrical bit of byplay that should have no bearing on the result. But there is little use in kicking against fate. They are at this moment engaged in writing out their letter of capitulation—as if it made any difference how you worded an ac- knowledgment of defeat and a surrender MOON NON ONTHONC BY ROBERT BARR. 3896, by Robert Barr.) ONO OWNED OOOO SESESEN CSET ES ESTER USES EN) rou better come at 5 and give } | less makes | him row. BLE MANY, es a) 2ks. of your interests to a lot of ignorant, beer- drinking boors who don’t—but what is the use of cursing? Another week of this in- decision would have demoralized me; in fact, I think it has done so already, for 1 don’t generally growl” “Will you come home with me, father?” No, my dear. I shouldn't have let you ccme all this distance merely to hear what we both knew this morning. Run along home, like 2 good little girl, and don’t sit up for me tonight. I'll be late. Of course, in spite of my scolding, [il stay ‘ill the last deg’s hung. I'll see the thing through and wave the white flag myself. It wouldu’t be quite the thing, you know, to have all the fun of the fight and then funk the submis- sicn. I merely came into this room because you were due at 6, and to rest my nerves a I'm going back to the directors and will write the letter of surrender myself; for they will never summon up courage enough to do even that if lam not at their s. I'm going down with the snip, rl, pretending I like it; so off you go, and we'll feel all right about it next week—perhap: Haggard as he looked the night before, Edna now noticed, with a thrill of fear, that for the first time he seemed an old man. His usually well-set shoulders were bent, and even his neatly fitting clothes hing loosely about him. The hesitation and the tone in which he sald the last word, “perhaps,” showed her like an electric flash what was in his own mind, and what had never occurred to her before—that when he was suddeniy wrenched away from the task that had been his life's work, he would break up in idleness like a useless hulk on the rocks. “Father, that letter ti he cried, “don't let them send tomorrow. A day more or no difference, and they will kecp it back if you ask them to.” Sartwell shook his head. “There is no use in delay,” he said. “It has always been my habit to do quickly | what had to be done, and I am getting too old to change my habits. If you must walk the plank, walk it, and get it over. The girl did not urge him further, but kissed him and said “Good night.” He saw her into the hansom, and told the cabman to drive to Waterloo. At the first turning Edna pushed up the little trap door in the roof of the cab. “Do you know where the headquarters of the strikers are?" she asked. “Yes, At the Salvation Hall, mis: . drive me there as quickly as you The cabby turned his horse, and in a stort time was making h's way through the | crowd of men who were gathering from all qtarters to the meeting. He drew up at the curb in front of the hall. Edna stepped out, flushing as she saw the men looking curiously at her. She said to one: Where can I find Mr. Marsten?” “He's in his room at the back of the ‘all, ma’am. This wye, ma'am. I'll show you the door.” followed the man down the long, r age at the side of the hall. “For God's sake, mates, what's the mean- ing of this?” cried Gibbons, in amazement, taking his pipe out of his mouth. Some of the men laughed, but Gibbons loolced serious, and they saw that there was more in the incident than appeared on the it she wants to see?" cried Gib- bons, as the man appeared who had led the girl down the passage. “She arsked for Marsten. She's in with ‘Look here, mate: cried What have I ben telling you? We're sold. Um a Dutchman! That girl is Sartwell’s daughter, and I'll warrant she has come direct from him. I say, cabby, did you drive that lady here from ‘the works? “What's that to you? You're not paying Gibbons. young aay fare, wered the cabman, th characteristic disregard of the patel cone threatening “He ame from the works; I saw him,” | sald one of the men. order,” t inside and call this meeting to ed Gibbons, decisively, = Chapter XXXVI. Edna rapped lightly on the door at the back of the Salvation Hall, and heard Mar- sten’s voice shout “Come in.” After a mo- ment’s hesitation, she opened the door and entered. The young man was alone, sit- ting at the rough board table, with some papers before him, writing rapldly with a j pencil. He seemed absorbed in his work, and kept his head bent over it, saying shortly: “Weil, what fs it?” Edna stoed with her back against the door; she tried to speak, but could not. Her heart was beating so rapidly that it seemed to choke her, and her lips were dry. The murmur of numerous volces came | through the thin board partitions from the main hall, with the noise of the shuffling of many feet. Marsten continued to write quickly; then suddenly he lifted his head with a jerk, stared incredulously in the gathering darkness, and sprang to his feet. “My God—Edna!” he cried, and seemed about to advance toward her; but she rals- ed her hand, and he stood by the table with his knuckles resting upon it. “I cami She spoke in a whisper, so husky and unnatural that it seemed to her the voice belonged to some one else. came to speak to you—about the strike es?” “It must stop.” “It will stop within a day or two. Monk- ton & Hope are defeated.” “You mean that my father is defeated. It fs killing him. I can see that, although he tries— He does not know I have come here. I came of my own accord because you— If you will get the men to go back, I give you my word that he will grant ali you are fighting for. All I ask is that you will not make it hard for him. The mea do not care as long as they get what they want. Will you do this “Do you mean that I am to call this ike off and pretend that the men are de- It will be all the same in the “Oh, I cannot do that.” “Why? The men do not care as long as they get what they ask. With my father it is different. He is breaking down. I know I am asking a great deal of you, for you feel as he does, and want to win as badly as he does; but he 1s old, and you are young. You have all the world before you. What need you care, then, whether you win this strike or not? There are other strikes for you to win, but he—he is fight- ing his last battle.” Her voice had become clearer and mofe like itself as she earnestly pleaded for her father. Some one in the main building had started a rollicking music hall song then | as infectious as an epidemic on the streets of London. The whole house had joined in the swinging chorus, beating time with the tramp of many feet. Neither of the two appeared to hear the song, but both raised their voices slightly to make themselves heard above the sound. “I care nothing for any personal triumph —nothing at all,” said Marsten. “If I could change places with your father and accept defeat for him I willingly would. But the men have trusted me—" “The m cried Edna, the scarlet chas- ing the whiteness from her cheeks as her eyes flashed and her voice rose. “What do the men care? Listen to them.” She waved her hand toward the hall. “They would sing and shout like that if their best friend was dying. Who has done more for his men than my father? He risked his life for them at the fire, and would do so again. He has built up the works that have given them employment. He. has kept the shops full at a loss when times were bad, so that they might not starve. Every man was sure of his place as long as he deserved it, and no master in London was more loath than he to discharge a man.” She cast down her eyes as she suddenly remem- bered that one man had been discharged without cause by her father; then, without raising them, she pleaded again: “Why will not a real victory, without the name of it, satisfy you?” “Because it is not alone for these men who are now shouting that I am fighting. The eyes of all England are on this strike. An acknowledged victory over so strong a firm as that of Monkton & Hope will mean an easier victory for every man who js now earning his bread in this country, when he is compelled to strike for his just due. ‘last strike, It will hearten every workingman and be a warning to every employer.” ‘The chorus in the hall was broken by three sharp raps of a-mallet on a table. The sound of the singing subsided, and the veice of some one calling the meeting to order was heard. Edna slowly raised her eyes and looked at him, with a flash of fearing defiance in them. She spoke in an agitated whisper. “You remember what you said to me in the garden at Eastbourne. If you will do what I ask of you I will do as you wish when—when you ask me.” ‘The young man, his trembling right hand clenching and unclenching nervously, strode a step forward. “No, no,” she cried. “Stay where you are. Answer me, answer me.” “Oh, Edna,’’ he whispered, “God knows I would do anything to win you—anything— yes, almost what you ask. “Yes or no?” she cried. “Answer me.” “I cannot be a traitor to the men.” As if in approval of this sentiment a cheer rose from the hall, Some one was speaking, and, even in his misery, Marsten recognized the voice of Gibbons. Edna turned without a word and opened the door. Marsten followed her out. “Stay where you are,” she sald, with a sob. will see you to the station.” “No; you must not come near me. I hope never to see you again.” ‘I will see you to the station,” repeated Marsten, doggedly. The girl said notaing more, but walked hurriedly down the narrow passage, the young man following her. She sprang into the waiting hansom, crying, “Waterloo; quick!’ ‘The cab whirled away, leaving Marsten standing bareheaded on the curb. He re- mained there for some minutes, gazing in the direction the cab had taken, then turn- ed with a sigh and walked slowly up the passage to his room. It seemed more bare and cmpty than ever it had been before, and he could hardly realize that a few short moments since she had stood within it. He heard, without heeding, the noise from the hail, like the low growl of some wild beast. He looked at the papers on the table, wrinkling his brow trying to under- stand what they were all about. It appear- ed ages since he sat there writing—now h heard nothing but the words “Answer me!” ringing in his ears. He was starued by another kneck at the door, and sprang to- ward it, throwing it eagerly open, hoping she had returned. Monkton & Hope's tall, grizzled commissionaire, in his uniform, with the medal dangling from his breast, stood there, perhaps astonished at the sud- den opening of the door, but not a muscle oi his face showing his surprise. He sa- luted gravely. “A letter from the firm, sir.” “Ah! Step inside. Any answer required?” ‘I don’t knew, si answered the com- missionaire, standing as straight and as rigid as if on parade. Marsten tore open the envelope, and the reading of the letter brought him to his senses. It was a terse communication, and informed him that Monkton & Hope agreed to the terms of the men. Mr. Sartwell would wait at his office until 10 o'clock to Mr. Marsten and arrange for the ing of the works in the morning. sten dashed off an official reply, and said he would wait on Mr. Sartwell in half an hour's time. Giving this note to the commissionaire, who again saluted and withdrew, Marsten, with the letter in his nd, opened the door that communicated with the platform and stepped out in the sight of the meeting. A howl of derision greeted his appearance, and the howl of an angry mob is a sound that, once heard, a man never wishes to hear again. “There he is,” shouted Gibbons, whose speech Marsten’s entrance had evidently interrupted. “There he 1s, and let him deny it if ke can!” “Deny what?” cried Marsten. “Deny that you have been in communica- tion with the enemy! Deny that Sartwell’s daughter has only this moment left you!’ “That has nothing to do with you, nor with this strike. England is a free coun- try; a man may talk with whom he leases.” PicHe can’t deny it,” shouted Gibbons at the top of his voice. ‘There were too many witnesses this time. She didn’t know that a meeting was gathering. Where now Is the man at the back of the hall who cried out it was a lie? I told you I would prove it by Marsten himself.” “Let me read you this letter,” cried Mar- sten. waving in his hand the letter from the firm, to command attention. He saw the crowd was in that dangerous state of excitement which requires but an_injudi- cious word to precipitate a riot. His own friends, evidently abashed by his admission, were at the back of the hall, silent and dis- concerted. ‘The Gibbons gang were massed in front, wildly gesticulating, and vociferous with taunts and threats. They were loudly call- ing upon him to get down from the plat- form. He saw, too, that the old committee and others of Gibbons’ partisans were on the platform behind him, many standing up with their eyes on Gibbons, and the situation reminded him of the time when Braunt had been kicked off the platform and thrust aside. “Let me read this letter,” he repeated. “Presently, presently,” said Gibbons. “You will have your opportunity later on. I have the floor just now.” “f am secretary of the union,” persisted Marsten, “and I demand a hearing. After that you may do as you please.” Here the chairman rose and called loud- 1, “Order, order. Mr. Gibbons has the floor. I may add for Mr. Marsten’s information, since he chose to absent himself from the meeting, “knowing it was in session, that Mr. Gibbons has been made sccretary of the union by a practically unanimous vote, and I ask Mr. Marsten to leave the plat- form until he is called upon to speak.” “T have a letter from the firm,’ shouted Marsten, trying to lift his volce above the uproar. There was a chorus of ho and roars of “chair, chair.” “Come down.” One of the men behind Marsten pushed him toward the edge of the platform, crying ‘Obey the chair.” This was the signal for a general onset, and Marsten, grappling with the foremost of his assailants, both went down together to the main floor. Instantly the meeting broke into an unmanageable mob, while Gibbohs roared, ‘No violence, men,” and ineffectually waved his arms over the turbulent, seething, struggling mass. His appeals were as futile as Canuie’s com- mands to the The chairraan pounded unheard on the table with his mallet. Once Marsien shook himself free and rose to his feet. His right hand, with the iattered letter still clenched in it, appeared above the heads of the combatants for a moment, it suddenly disappeared, and he went finally under the feet of the madden- ed, trampling horde. The police struck in promptly and with effect. The side door was thrown open, and Marsten was dragged out through it, accompanied by several struggling, torn and bleeding rioters who had been nabbed by the law. Gradually the pounding on the table became audible, and Gibbons’ voice, now hoarse with useless calling for peace, could be heard. 1 am sorry,” he began, “that there has been even the semblance of a disturbance here tonight. It will be used by our ene- mies against us; but, as you know, It all came about through disobedience ‘to the chair. I want to say nothing against an absent man, and I am sure we all hope he has not been hurt (cheers); but if our ex- secretary had calmly bowed to the will of the meeting and had refrained from laying hands on the man who merely requested him to obey the chair, this deplorable event would not have occurred. When, after the you lost confidence*in me, I bowed to the will of the majority without a murmur, and, as you all know, I have done imy ‘best, ever since, to assist my successor, and now that I have been called again to this position, through no wish of mine, I have but to obey the mandate thus given. I take it that It is your pleasure that this strike shall now cease. Although I never said so, I always looked upon the present strike as an unnecessary one, and unjust. The firm, @ short time since, vol: untarily increasea our wages, and’ this struggle has consequently never had the sympathy of the public, without which no great struggle can succeed. I do not ven- ture to offer suggestions, but if any one here has a suggestion to make, I now give place to him. . Gibbens did love the sound of his own voice, and it apparently gave pleasure to the majority present, for they loudly cheered all his noble sentiments. A man promptly arose to his feet, and said it had lately been only too evident thet Marsten had brought this strike to further his own advancement, using the men, who trusted him, as tools for that purpose. Gibbons had said nothing on this point, but they all felt sore about it never- theless; and although he admired Gibbons’ good heart in refusing to say a word against a fallen enemy, still the matter ought to be referred to. He moved that Gibbcns be appointed to meet Sartwell as soon sible and arrange terms for going getting, if he could, a promise that the “blacklegs” be discharged. There would be general satisfaction if this prom- ise couid be secured. This was seconded and carried unani-|had developed in bim the reprehensible mously. Once more Gibbons rose to his feet. “A messenger I sent off a few moments ago reports that Sartwell is still in his of- fice. He has been staying late for some time past, so it struck me he might be there now. I will go at once and confer with him, and will return as soon as possi- ble and give you the result of the confer- ence. Meanwhile you can transact eny other business that may come before the meeting.” Sartwell, alone in his office, expecting Marsten, was naturally surprised when Gibbons entered instead, but he greeted the newcomer without showing that his visit was unlooked for. “Mr. Sartwelf”' began Gibbons, going straight to the point. “I have again teen made secretary Of the union. If I end this strike will you make me assistant man- ager?” Sartwell’s eyes partially closed, and he looked keenly at his visitor through the narrow slits for a moment or two before answering. Gibbons fidgeted uneasily. “We all play for our own hand, you know,” the new secretary added, laugh- ing. uncomfortably, “and I know that with you it is better to say out what one mean: “We all play for our own hand—yes, said Sartwell, slowly. “Can you end the strike?” “TI think so.” “You only think so. Well, Mr. Gibbons, come back to me when you are sure, and I will talk to you.” I am sure, if it comes to that.” ‘Ah, that is a different matter. The meeting, then, after making you secretary, passed a resolution to end the strike?” “Hardly that, Mr. Sartwell. It has au- thorized me to negotiate with you. Now, if you promise me ,the assistant manage . 1 will bring the men back tomorrow. he strike was bound soon to end with- out any promises from me. I sent a com- pennicetion to Marsten tonight regarding it. Do you mean to hin d it to the meeting?’ “He did not. He tried to, but the men had enough of Marsten, and they refused to listen.’ “Quite so. Then it is with you alone I have to deal? Marsten is out of it?” hat is the state of the case.” “Well, Iam sorry I cannot offer you the assistant managership; although,of course, I hope that the strike will end as speedily as possible.” “Marsten sald you offered it to him; true?” “i think Marsten generally speaks the truth. Let us stop beating about the bush, Gibbons. The men tonight have either re- solved to come back or they have not. If they are coming back they will come, whether I deal with you or not. If not, then I don’t see how you can say more than that you will do your best to bring them back. Now, all I shall promise is this: If you bring the men back tomorrow, I will see that your position in the works is improved.” Phat’s rather hard lines, Mr. Sartwell. Marsten brought on the strike, and you offer him the assistant managership. I end the strike, and you will make no definite terms.”” “I offered Marsten the position before the strike began. Once the fight was on, it had to be brought to a finish. The tinish has come, and I think you had better ac- cept the only terms I can offer. Don't you see that if I were not a man of my word I could eastly promise you anything, and then discharge you a month heace “Well, I'll trust to your generos' Sartwell. the men?” “What do they ask?” “They wish you to discharge blacklegs you have engaged.”” “Lm afraid, Gibbons, I cannot promise that, either. I will, however, send home all who want to go and can find situations, but your men will not suffer on account of the new employes. I have work enovgh for you all; thére will be plenty to do to make up for lpSt t}me.” “You practically offer us nothing, Sartwell. “Oh, yes, I do; Fam conceding more than you think. I said in my wrath, when the men went out, that I would never again allow a union man to set foot in the works; but now that they have chosen a moderate, sensible secretary, I am willing to have them come baek, allowing them to still re- main in the union. Is that nothing? I think I have been’most conciliatory the circumstances.” “The meeting is still in session, M well. Would you mind coming with and telling the men that you will cuaran- tee every one: a place, and that you will pot interfere with thetr membership in the union?” “I don’t mind going with you, but you can probably make more out of the con- cessions than I, for you are more eloquent on your feet. I will simply corroborate what you say and tell the men the gates that he has not is t Mr. Now, what will you promise to all the Mr. will be open for them tomorrow. Mean- while, just wait for me at the gate. I have a few orders to give my commissionaire.” The uniformed man answered Sartwell's call, and stood like a statue to receive his orders. The manager clo3ed the door. “I am afraid there not much sleep for you tonight, commissionaire,” he said in a low voice, “but we will make that up to you in some other way, and when the men come back tomorrow you may sleep the whole of the foilowing week, if you like. As soon as Gibbons and I are away and you have closed the office I want you to search for Marsten. You will likely find him in his room. I don’t know where he lives, but that you will have to find out— quietly, you understand. Ask him from me to give you back the ietter you brought to him this evening. If he refuses, ask him not to show it to any one until he sees me in the morning.” @OSSSSGSHS00 90000 069595 HOSSG5005 AYIEIR'S 8S 20502 a) @ ra me.” cures. of disease. Sarsaparilla. Ayer’s Curebook. A story yy cured. Free. J. C. Ayer Co., Lowell, Mass. “Look for the woman,” is the axiom of those * who seek the motives of crime. Begin with the blood is the watchword of those who seek the secret source of foul disease. Many people write: “When all else failed, Ayer’s Sarsaparilla cured There’s x0thing remarkable about such They only prove that previous treatments had neglected to begin with the blood. Ayer’s Sarsaparilla is specially a blood medicine. right to the blood as the common breeding ground It cures many forms of disease, be- cause many forms of disease begin in the blood. It cures permanently, because it treats the root of disease instead of the surface manifestations. Don’t experiment with unreliable medicines. Trust the experience of thousands healed by Ayer’s GBSSOOVGOQOOSH HS GGOHHHOSOOOHG HSS SSSOHSOOSS 5) Sarsaparilla, - of cures told by the % BD at et & Cosa It goes 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. “1 just want to see if the paper has any- thing 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 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 crle 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; every- thing.” What He patted her affectionately on the shoulder. e * “Ts 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 cityward not having begun for Saban was silent, and nothing had been sald 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 gar- den?” The commissionaire brought his heels to- gether sharply and presently went forth on his vain search; for Marsten, unconscious, had been taken in an ambulance to St. Martyr's Hospital, with the remnants of eee letter firmly clutched in his clenched ts Chapter XXXVIII. Again it was the last tralm to Wimble- don, but Sartwell, tired as he was, strode home from the station with the springy step of a young man. Edna, waiting fer 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; 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. Marsien 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 {t. My commlsslonaire is prob- ably 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 temp- tation 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 untill sftep he has seen me.” “Do you stillantpnd to offer him a place in the works? “That will depend. If his experience has driven all the visionary nonsense about the regeneration of''thé workingman.out of his head, he will Be & most valuable man for any firm to have In its service. I will see how the land festwhen I talk with him.” “You have ng féeling against him, then, father?” Th “None in the least. Just the opposite. I have the test admiration for the way he conduéted!the fight.” “You will not resign, will you?” Sartwell la 4 “I think not. There will be a lot to do, and I shail want to be in the thick of it. No, our continentalitrip Is postponed, Edna. Why, my co ae been crying, ail alone “Marsten here by yourseff! “fut, tut, Edna, that will never do! I thought you had more courage than myself—noltwthat 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, 80 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!” Hana 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 re- cuperative 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 seamed -tired .ag;he took his place at the breakfast table: and unfolded the morning paper. Years of not too congenial married life Yes, father; twice.” “I don’t want you to answer, my dear, unless you care to do so. Where did you meet him?” “J 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 ike you to know. The first time wes 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?” The ghost of a smile novered about the firm lips of Sartwell, but @ corners of Edna’s mouth drooped pathetically, aad she seemed on the verze of tears. She kept her eyes on the floor of ihe 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 meating him. If you had told me I would rst have spoken to him at Sastbourne.”” “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 1 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. Ill not ask you an- other question. You mustn't make people think you have been crying. They will im- agine 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 cir- cumstances.” “The papers say his condition is danger- ous.” “I don’t anticipate any danger, unicss 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 cleur. I was somewhat anxious about that, for he was a long time unconscious.” “There,” said Sartwell to his Gaughter, who stood with parted lips, 1 tently to what the doctor said. 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 yery 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, io have been a riot | “Don’t bother about the men. I'm look- ing after them. Yes, they've come back Marsten tried feebiy to lift his head, but ank back again he letter,” he whi 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, some relief, placed it in his pocket “Now. my lad, get well. There will be stirring times at the works, and I shall need the best heip 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 com- forts of the place while you are here Edna took his hand when her father had left the room. Marsten looked 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.) ——____ + e-+ ____ MISS DOLBY AND JENNY Once a Rival to the Swedish Song- stress. From Harper's Magazine. Miss Dolby, when Jenny Lind came to dark girl, well proportioned, quite solid and unethereal, but a most earnest and conscientious student, gifted with a superb, deep contralto, and a bonhomie and homely grace of her own that won, without exacily fascinating, the public at first. She was equally good at a rousing Scotch song or a fireside domestic ballad (John Hullah wrote the famous “Three Fishers” for her in his later da; but In oratorio, and in her own way, Miss Dolby was supreme—not second even to Jenny. Certainly she never had that extraordinary and weird magnetism which made unmusical people like Stanley, afterward the celebrated Dean of West- minster, rave about her great soprano rival, Jenny; but the Dolby was better- looking than Jenny, though never down- right pretty—very dark, and handsome, one might call her, with a certain embon- point after thirty which she bore grace- fully, but which did not add to her grace. Miss Dolby’s moment came. When Jenny Lind retired from the stage the prima at once shone out as an oratorio star of the first magnitude; she thus directly invaded a sphere in which Clara Novello, soprano, and Miss Dolby, contralto, reigned su- preme. Jenny Lind did not apparently ac- cept the situation quite as gracefully as she could well have afforded to do. It was to her a necessity to outshine every one. Mendelssohn was doubtless a good deal smitten with the Swedish nightingale. He not unnaturally wrote his great soprano parts with her in his eye—or, rather, his ear. Many can reme: er entrancing singing of “Jerusalem’ t. Paul,” and the seraphic way in which her divine voice —spirit, I had almost said—would soar above the rest in the great double guartet in “Elijah,” “He shall give His angels charge over thee.” But Miss Dolby was not happy. She felt agrieved at the music of “St. Paul.” That the first contralto singer in England, who had scored even in pered, “what is left | with | ou must hurry up and | England in 1847, was a slim-waisted, tall, | ermany against J | so little to do iz nny Lind, she Paul” have was tuo bad! | The following has, I Lieve never been printed. I had it from up of Doiby’s sister (afterward Mme. Sainton), now in Australia “Dr. Mendelssohn,” says Miss Dolby then at the height of her popularity to hope you won't treat contraltos ir next ora badly in yo says Mendelssohn. “My what do you mean? I alv as fairly possibie H at all sa M next to nothing to | to show us off to { Jelssohn was thi ell, Miss Dolby do you want?” “low two good soles and some mice tak- > compe ‘Two & ing out and some ni and he it down. with that well-known m rating smile, which, « n, coui be forgotten. When jah” came ¢ addition to the “njce little bits,” M by, to her delight, fouad the two in songs which she her own—“Woe! rest in the Lord! Dr. Men ohn for her. Exeter Hall, in a room down stairs, over thg two songs, accompanying hims, “When she had sung “Woe! woe!” delssohn turn round and said: will be the favorite contralto song. ysequently mad » unto them and at tried em Me “Taat Miss Doiby repl T differ from you, Dr. Mendelssohn. ‘O rest in the Lord! wid be the favorite. It wil! take the public far more than ‘Woe! woe! She then sang {i panying in a so his head on on the end h Mendelssohn t of listening trance ide—a way he had—and at quite overcome, as tens en since by her render- inspired melody. “You are Miss Dolby; that will be the suc- And so it was. - os pm- with > bh ing of right cess! A Novel Device, From the Detroit Free Press, “When people are suffering from thirst they will resort to all kinds of means to get water,” remarked a gentleman who was at cne time a member of the United States geological and surveying expedition in the Indian terricor ‘or some time we had been without water and were suffering greatly. Among our number was an old trapper who was keen on the s water as is a houn F on the trall of lly he paused at a place and stoppe: 1 think th "s water here, if we could dig a well,” he observed. ‘5B we can't,’ I replied. ‘No, but we can do something else,” he said. “With that he cut a reed, tying some moss on the end of it. Then he dug into the earth, placed his reed in the hole and packed the ecrth around the reed. He waited for a few moment ““Do you mean to say you can suck water cut of that thine” I asked. Yes, if, as I think, there's w the surface.” “He drew strongly at it with much satis- faction. “ "Good! he remarl ‘Would you like to try it ‘With little confidence in the result, I sucked at the reed, with the surprising result of getting plenty of clear, pure water. To my parched tongue {t Seemed the very nectar of the gods. It's as clear as the water of a spring,” id. Yes, the moss is our filter,” he replied. “We pursued our Journey much refresh- ed, and I never forgot the old trapper's advice.” THE GROWTH OF AN ARTIST. y