No--they were not very satisfactory, these attempts of Letty's in the village. She thought of them with a kind of inner exasperation as she walked home. She had been going to a few old and sick people, and trying to ignore the strike. But at bottom she felt an angry resentment towards these loafing, troublesome fellows, who filled the village street when they ought to have been down in the pits--who were starving their own children no less than disturbing and curtailing the incomes of their betters. Did they suppose that people were going to run pits for them for nothing? Their drink and their religion seemed to her equally hideous. She hated the two Dissenting ministers of the place only less than Valentine Burrows himself, and delighted to pass their wives with her head high in air. With these general feelings towards the population in her mind, why these efforts at consolation and almsgiving? Well, the poor old people were not responsible; but she did not see that any good had come of it. She had said nothing about her visits to George, nor did-she suppose that he had noticed them. He had been so incessantly busy since their arrival with conferences and committees that she had seen very little of him. It was generally believed that the strike was nearing its end, and that the men were exhausted; but she did not think that George was very hopeful yet. Presently, as she neared a dark slope of road, bordered with trees on one side and the high "bank" of the main pit on the other, her thoughts turned back to their natural and abiding subject--herself. Oh, the dulness of life at Ferth during the last three weeks! She thought of her amusements in town, of the country houses where they might now be staying but for George's pride, of Cathedine, even; and a rush of revolt and self-pity filled her mind. George always away, nothing to do in the ugly house, and Lady Tressady coming directly--she said to herself, suffocating, her small hands stiffening, that she felt fit to kill herself. Half-way down the slope she heard steps behind her in the gathering darkness, and at the same moment something struck her violently on the shoulder. She cried out, and clutched at some wooden railings along the road for support, as the lump of "dirt" from the bank which had been flung at her dropped beside her. "Letty, is that you?" shouted a voice from the direction of the village--her husband's voice. She heard running. In a few seconds George had reached her and was holding her. "What is it struck you? I see! Cowards! _damned_ cowards! Has it broken your arm? Try and move it." Sick with pain she tried to obey him. "No," she said faintly; "it is not broken--I think not." "Good!" he cried, rejoicing; "probably only a bad bruise. The brute mercifully picked up nothing very hard"--and he pushed the lump with his foot. "Take my scarf, dear; let me sling it. Ah!--what was that? Letty! can you be brave--can you let me go one minute? I sha'n't be out of your sight."