"Now how should I know?" protested the amateur apologist. "A strike is a strike, isn't it? But I don't believe it was the good kind. He wasn't at all enthusiastic about it." "That will do," said Connie. "Poor Dick!" And Miss Van Vetter, who was not of the stony-hearted, rose and went to the piano that she might not advertise her emotion. Lansdale picked himself up out of the ruins of his attempt to do Bartrow a good turn, and hoped the worst was over. It was for the time; but later in the evening, when Myra had gone to the library for a book they had been talking about, Connie returned to the unfinished inquisition. "You know more than you have told us about Dick's trouble," she said gravely. "Is it very serious?" "Yes, rather." Lansdale made a sudden resolve to cleave to the facts in the case, telling as few of them as he might. "It wasn't a strike at all, was it?" "No; that was a little figure of speech. It is rather the lack of a strike--of the kind you meant." "Poor boy! I don't wonder that it made him want to run away. He has worked so hard and so long, and his faith in the Little Myriad has been unbounded. What will he do?" "I don't know that. In fact, I think he is not quite at the brink of things yet. But he is afraid it is coming to that." "How did he talk? Is he very much discouraged? But of course he isn't; nothing discourages him." Lansdale was looking into the compelling eyes and he forgot his rôle,--forgot that he had been giving Constance to understand that the prospective failure of the mine was the only cloud in Bartrow's sky. "I'm sorry I can't confirm that." He spoke hurriedly, hearing the rustle of Miss Van Vetter's skirts in the hall. "He decided rather suddenly,--to go back, you know. He intended coming here with me this evening. I don't think he had ever considered all the possibilities and consequences; and we were talking it over. Then he decided not to come. He is the soul of honor." Constance nodded intelligence, and made the proper diversion when her cousin came in with the book. But Miss Van Vetter had overheard the final sentence, and she put it away for future reference. Lansdale said good-night a little later, and they both went to the door with him. When he was gone Myra drew Connie into the library and made her sit down where the light from the shaded chandelier fell full upon her. "Connie, dear," she began, fixing her cousin with an inquisitorial eye, "who is 'the soul of honor'?" "It isn't nice to overhear things," said Connie pertly. "I might retort that it isn't nice to have confidences with a gentleman the moment your cousin's back is turned, but I sha'n't. Will you tell me what I want to know?" "We were talking about Dick." Myra's hands were clasped over her knee, and one daintily shod foot was tapping a tattoo on the rug. "Was it anything that I ought not to know?"