The meeting had broken up. Richard North and a few of the more intelligent of the men--those who had filled the more important posts at the works--remained talking yet together. Mrs. Gass, and Miss Dallory with her basket of fresh eggs, went away together. Women stood about with anxious faces, watching for the news. They were tired of the strike: heartsick, as some of them feelingly expressed it. Nothing teaches so well as experience: the women were as eager for the strike at one time as the men could be, believing it would bring them a tide of prosperity in its wake. They had not bargained for what it had really brought: misery, and dismantled homes, and semi-starvation. But for being obliged to keep up as others did--as we all have to do, whatever may be the life's struggles, the heart's bitter care--there were those amongst them who would have laid down to die in sheer hopelessness. Mrs. Ketler stood at her door in a tattered black net cap--the once tidy woman. She was shading the sun from her eyes as she looked out for her husband. It prevented her noticing the approach of the ladies; and when they accosted her she backed into her house in her timid way, rather startled, attempting a few words by way of apology. The little girl who was sick--a wan child of seven years old--was being nursed by one somewhat older. Miss Dallory looked round to see that there was a chair left, and took the invalid on her own lap. Almost all the available things the house once contained had been parted with; either pledged or sold. Miss Dallory gave the eggs to the mother, and a half-pint bottle of beef-tea that lay at the bottom of the basket. "How is Cissy to-day?" she asked tenderly of the child. "Cissy tired," was the little one's answer. "Has Cissy finished the strawberry-jam?" Cissy nodded. "Then let your big boy come to Ham Court for some more," said Miss Dallory, turning to the mother. The "big boy" was the eldest. He had been employed at the works, but was of course condemned to idleness like the rest. "Aren't you pretty tired of this sort o' thing?" demanded Mrs. Gass, who had come to an anchor on a wooden bucket turned upside-down. The woman knew what she meant by "this sort o' thing," and gave a groan. It was very expressive, showing _how_ tired she was of it, and how hopeless were any prospects of a change. "I've heard about the master's offer, ma'am; but the men mean to reject it," she said. "Smith stopped to tell me as he went by. The Lord above knows what is to become of us!" "If the men do reject it, they'll deserve to starve for the rest of their lives," retorted Mrs. Gass. "Any way, I hope they'll have it upon their consciences for ever." "It's the Trades' Union," said the woman in a low tone, giving a frightened look around. "The men can't do as they would."