“It’s the darkness of the church,” he said, “and perhaps the sadness of the music. I’ll play something more cheerful next time you come. I play too much in minor keys.” At the door she asked him to stop a moment before going out. She dried her eyes, but ineffectually; for, leaning against the stone wall, she began to cry again in a despondent, helpless way that wrung the young man’s heart within him. “Jessie, Jessie,” he faltered, not knowing what to do or say. “I feel ill and weak,” she sobbed. “I shall be all right again presently.” “Come, and we will have tea somewhere. That will cheer you up.” They went away together, and he took her to a place where tea was to be had. She sat there, dejectedly leaning her head on her hand, while the refreshments were being brought; he opposite her, in melancholy silence. She took some sips of the tea, but could not drink it, shaking her head when he offered her the buttered bread. “I must get home,” she said at last. “I can’t eat. I shall be better there.” They walked slowly to Rose Garden Court, and at No. 3 he helped her up the sordid stair; she clinging breathlessly to the shaky railing at every step or two, he thankful there was but one flight to climb. Braunt sat in his armchair, an angry cloud on his brow. He was in his gruffest mood, looking at them when they entered with surly displeasure, but he said nothing. It was the evening after the men, with their small majority, had resolved to continue the strike, and Braunt’s pipe was cold. Not another scrap of tobacco could he gather, although he had turned out every pocket in hope of finding a crumb or two. Jessie sank into a chair, her white face turning appealingly, alternately from her father to her friend, evidently fearing that something harsh might be said, for she knew her father was rough-spoken when ill-pleased. “Jessie is not well,” said the organist. Braunt did not answer him, but crossed over to his daughter, and, smoothing her hair, said more gently than she had expected: “What’s wrong, lassie? Art hungry?” “No, no,” murmured the girl, eagerly. “We had tea before we came in. I’m not hungry.” Langly, slow as he was to comprehend, saw that Braunt, at least, had been without food, perhaps for long. He had several times offered him money from his own scanty store, but it had always been refused, sometimes in a manner not altogether friendly. The organist went quietly out, leaving father and daughter alone together. “Would you like me to get some one to come in--some woman?” said Braunt, anxiously. “We don’t know our neighbours, but one of the women would come in if she knew you were ill.” The girl shook her head. “I want none--naught but just to rest a little. It will all pass away soon. I need but rest.” The father returned to his chair, and they sat silent in the gathering darkness.