But he had to hold himself rather sternly in check as he found himself trying to keep away from his old house. He had a very definite ache for the children. He wanted just to see them, but he really couldn’t hang around street corners, he told himself. Finally, on the day he left, he telephoned the house. It was relief when Ellen answered. He had decided to hang up if it was Cecily’s voice. “It’s Mr. Harrison, Ellen. No, I didn’t want to speak to Mrs. Harrison. It’s all right that she’s out. I’m leaving town in a few minutes and I was wondering if you could bring Dorothea down to the train. And Leslie? It isn’t far. Mrs. Harrison has the baby with her? Then, if you could--fine, fine, fine. I’ll send you home in a taxi. Can’t I send a taxi for you? All right, in half an hour, then.” He was trembling when he saw the children come down the platform, Dorothea so competent now, Leslie tumbling along like a small brown bear. Such wonderful children! He had not had time for toys, but he had raided a confectioner’s. “Are you going away again, daddy?” “I must, dear. I have work to do. You must be a good girl and mind mother.” “I do.” “Mrs. Harrison well, Ellen?” “Yes, Mr. Harrison. I’m sure she’ll be sorry you can’t come for dinner.” “Trying to keep us respectable, Ellen?” Dick chuckled, but his laughter was a little husky. “Better come out with us,” urged Ellen with unusual boldness. Dick shrank instinctively. “Wouldn’t do--wouldn’t do at all. Too bad, Ellen, but it’s too late for that. Remember what you promised; let me know if Mrs. Harrison ever needs me. Good-by, Leslie, old chunk; good-by, Dorothea, my darling.” Ellen took them off reluctantly and Dick jumped on his train--a train of daycoaches, perambulated by boys with “popcorn, chewing gum and candy.” He felt like a tramp, and sitting slouched up beside his window, pulled his cap over his eyes. Homeless. What did it matter if he was rich and equipped with power? He was homeless. A wave of bitterness towards his wife swept over him. There were Walter and his Della, waiting for their child; Fliss with her Matthew; Cecily and he--separated. “I must work,” he told himself. “I must work like hell.” That was what he did, what he had to do. He was hardly back in Allenby before trouble broke out. The long winter had worn on every one. Nerves which could not be sent to Florida for rehabilitation were none the less shattered in dirty-faced miners and their stolid seeming wives. Professional agitators; a long list of impossible demands; poor whiskey obtained from the blind pigs; an official firing an unwary shot; other angry shots; the old story of the strike and its outcome. Dick toiled night and day now, using every ounce of influence he had gained, doing the things which must be done in every strike; trying to keep sparks from the inflammable bitterness, fighting, losing, winning a little, seeing privation and trouble face to face as he had never seen it.