* * * * * She found the old basket maker working with feverish energy. Billy Rand at the bench in the corner of the room was as busy with his part of their joint industry. It was the Interpreter's habit, when Helen was with him, to lay aside his work. But of late he had continued the occupation of his hands even as he talked with her. She had noticed this, as women always notice such things--but that was all. On this day, when the old man in the wheel chair failed to give her his undivided attention, something in his manner impressed the trivial incident more sharply on her mind. He greeted her kindly, as always, but while she was conscious of no lack of warmth in his welcome, she felt in the deep tones of that gentle voice a sadness that moved her to quick concern. The dark eyes that never failed to light with pleasure at her coming were filled with weary pain. The strong face was thin and tired. As he bent his white head over the work in his lap he seemed to have grown suddenly very weak and old. With an awakened mind, the young woman looked curiously about the room. She had never seen it so filled with materials and with finished baskets. The table with the big lamp and the magazines and papers had been moved into the far corner against the book shelves, as though he had now neither time nor thought for reading. The floor was covered thick with a litter of chips and shavings. Even silent Billy's face was filled with anxiety and troubled care as he looked from Helen to his old companion in the wheel chair and slowly turned back to his work on the bench. "What is the matter here?" she demanded, now thoroughly aroused. "Matter?" returned the Interpreter. "Is there anything wrong here, Helen?" "You are not well," she insisted. "You look all worn out--as if you had not slept for weeks--what is it?" "Oh, that is nothing," he answered, with a smile. "Billy and I have been working overtime a little--that is all." "But why?" she demanded, "why must you wear yourself out like this? Surely there is no need for you to work so hard, day and night." He answered as if he were not sure that he had heard her aright. "No need, Helen? Surely, child, you cannot be so ignorant of the want that exists within sight of your home?" She returned his look wonderingly. "You mean the strike?" Bending over his work again, the old basket maker answered, sorrowfully, "Yes, Helen, I mean the strike." There was something in the Interpreter's manner--something in the weary, drooping figure in that wheel chair--in the tired, deep-lined face--in the pain-filled eyes and the gentle voice that went to the deeps of Helen Ward's woman heart.